


Before & Beyond Pain and Prejudice: A Reimagining, Part Two

by YourLeananSidhe



Series: Before & Beyond Pain and Prejudice: A Reimagining [2]
Category: Batman - Fandom, Gotham - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 64,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YourLeananSidhe/pseuds/YourLeananSidhe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back story for Cassandra and Oswald, which continues into Gotham and later years. Based off "Penguin: Pain and Prejudice" (with several other comics and books thrown into the mix), but with my own twist. Cassandra's subsequent blindness and the canon around that will be addressed. The arc is set; I am just working my way through it. Please note that the character of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot in this story is a composite of his personality gathered from all forms of media about The Penguin, encompassing several comics/graphic novels, television shows, movies, and books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It came upon a midnight clear . . .”

The pain was unbearable. His spirit in a constant state of mourning.

“That glorious song of old . . .”

He watched the shoppers hurry past him on the snowy sidewalks of Gotham City, all smiles and light and fluffiness . . . like a Publix commercial.

“From angels bending near the earth . . .”

The families were the worst. He hated looking at them, but could never help himself, and detested his longing.

“To touch their harps of gold . . .” The bag he held brushed against his leg with each stride. Inside, wrapped carefully in tissue paper was a gift, although its intended beneficiary was missing. This would be Oswald’s tenth Christmas without Cassandra.

The state had just declared her dead, thanks to a change in state law that took that decision out of the family’s hand—removing the bereaved their right to petition the court in their own time—and shoved it into the eager hands of government officials whose main interest, although it was argued otherwise, was to get their grubby paws on the estate of the deceased where applicable. Oswald thought the change in law ingenious really and, had it not affected him personally, would have applauded such modifications. A brilliant scheme to increase state coffers.

In his case, the state could not touch Cassandra’s assets because Oswald would claim them. The reason he had not wanted the death certificate was not because of any fear of her holdings being taken from him, but the knowledge that the declaration— _death in absentia_ —made it concrete, real, _case closed, next_ —at least in the eyes of the law. How powerful this square of paper, deflating the tiny balloon of hope he had clutched all these years, waiting for her return.

He did not want or even need her life insurance. Nor did he have any intention of spending the cash he had given her ten years ago . . . property he would _not_ be reporting to the government, had _never_ reported. After all, it had been claimed in Jeb Green’s name. With all the supposedly dead people running around in recent years, Oswald almost wished Jeb would rise up so he could have the pleasure of killing him again. Between Jeb and Ed Ogilvy, it was hard to pick his favorite execution. He supposed it was actually yet to come.

Death is very official. Very final. Or at least it had been, until the deceased started popping up almost a decade ago. Caused quite the fiasco and was another reason for the change in state law—an impotent attempt to curb this type of “scientific” research, although the government still branded such research a conspiracy theory—one that Oswald knew firsthand was anything _but_ , having been privy to parts of it many years ago. As if the higher-ups had not known _exactly_ what was going on, but . . .

 _Deny, deny, deny_.

In very ugly reality, a study was being conducted on Gotham’s degradants and lunatics. Literally being perpetrated right under the noses of Gotham’s clueless, a hidden lair beneath the concrete and dirt, facilitated by their golden boy and missing prince—Bruce Wayne—the masses remaining ignorant of this fact. _Where was the hero_? they would ask, and Oswald would answer with a remodeled school, a scholarship, a free clinic. _I am right here! I did not desert you like others_. Never mind that his charities were covers for other endeavors. The city benefitted from his philanthropy nonetheless, so why would that matter?

Even with the pain Gotham had caused him, with Oswald always being on the outskirts of society—a solitary figure with fingers splayed against the window of an expensive restaurant, nose pressed against the fogged glass, believing entrance was due him, but always denied—he could not leave his city. Although she barely tolerated him, Gotham was the last living thing he possessed that he could claim was his, that gave him a connection to those he had lost. He had tried to hate her, even made up his mind to leave her—a rebellious son, a spurned lover, an abused pet—but another who was also an outcast (although Oswald refused that mantle for himself) convinced him to stay. Punish her a little. Wreck some havoc.

Havoc-wrecking was so much fun—as was evident from the dead people walking around.

Most people thought it just really good plastic surgery _anyway_ when they saw the very alive faces of the very much deceased bobbing and weaving and smiling throughout the streets of Gotham.

 _Look like the criminal of your choice_!

A cosmetic surgeon actually used this as a slogan for her struggling practice and almost overnight, she became a millionaire, capitalizing on resurrected rogues. _What is wrong with people that they would want the faces of the criminally insane, the jailed, the deformed_? It was hard to tell the difference between who was the walking dead and who was wearing a plastic face.

The doctor entertained the wealthiest of the wealthys—those with questionable kinks; the seediest of gang scum—who used the disguises for criminal activities; and those lucky recipients of such services, such as burn victims willing to alter their visage and movie stars who received the coupons in their gift bags at any and all award shows. Regulations finally had to be placed upon the limit of how many times a villain’s face could be used—a cap of sorts—which in turn led to an uptick in deaths among the look-a-likes. The numbers were discovered when the patients, whose doctors were required to list them on a registry for aggregation purposes, started showing up in the morgue. Reporters, ready to spin more in a minute than a spider does its whole lifetime, were happy to draw their own conclusions into the spate of deaths, the deduction being that it was to expand the opportunity for more people to own the faces of their fancies. A departed doppelganger only served to add that person’s preferred fascia back onto the availability list.

Oswald actually found himself agreeing with the media on that count. One would think that fifty Jerome Valeskas roaming the streets would be enough.

Part of the new law granting the government exclusivity in declaring people dead after seven years (or whenever they saw fit) backfired. Too many people who had been filed away as deceased, were committing crimes and getting away with it. How can you arrest someone who by law does not exist? And, then there was that wonderful Double Jeopardy loophole where someone could not be tried again for the same crime (this did not include appeals) after acquittal or conviction. _Ah, the Fifth Amendment_ , Oswald thought. _One of my favorites. They could just slither back into the alleyways or drainage pipes or sewers_ . . .

Of course, it would make them easier to kill as well. Nameless nobodies returned to the earth from which they had come and should have stayed.

 _C’est la vie_! _Or, more appropriately_ — _c’est la mort_!

Oswald was grateful there was no one walking around Gotham with Cassandra’s face. He would not— _and did not_ —want a clone of Cassandra, or someone with her features. He wanted the real thing. He wanted his wife back, with all her insecurities and annoying habits. He missed her clever brain and the way she laughed. He missed her touch, her scent.

Now in his breast pocket was the official, signed, word-from-on-high government death document complete with city seal, handed down by the fools in charge. He had received it this very morning, having put it off for as long as he could . . . he often wondered if the real reason he had been able to delay the declaration was that the state was waiting on him to die too in order to seize his assets since he had no next of kin.

When year seven had slithered in—the standard time the bureaucrats, who “only have the state’s best interests at heart”, declared a missing person dead—Oswald had “persuaded” officials here and there—some of them losing a body part or two, and bribed others to not declare her dead. It had worked and for the past three years, he had made his _convincing_ _argument_ for delay, but for some reason, now . . . _ding, ding, ding_! _Time was up_! How was that for a Christmas present? An unwelcomed and unexpected surprise. A certified document telling him his wife was deceased—his sweetheart, dead. _They_ decided. _They_ did it. Not _him_. Never _him_. He would have continued to mutilate and threaten, cajole and buy her another year, every year, for the rest of his life. But _they_ had taken that from him.

It is not the gift most men want to receive during the jubilant, hopeful holiday. At least, not the ones who loved their wives.

Still love their wives. _Wife_.

“It’s the most _unwonderful_ time of the year . . .” Oswald hissed when the next tune blasted out of an adjacent store as he marched passed it, trudging his way through the snow and avoiding snowball wars declared by little urchins who were running wild around him. He took an opportunity to hook a teenager’s ankle with his umbrella and sent the pimply-faced boy sprawling to the ground, causing Oswald to grin.

Cassandra would have chastised him for that.

His smirk quickly vanished when the boy commenced in making a snow angel instead of becoming angry, and was joined by other kids who threw themselves into the fluffy white piles, creating a small army of glistening angels before running off down the street, no doubt to dinner on the table.

Oswald stood there, staring at the imprints, ignoring the fact that the wind had just blown his hat from his head and tousled his bangs, black except for a strip of white down the center. He needed to purchase more dye before they started calling him The Skunk instead of The Penguin.

Tiny snowflakes sparkled in the garishness of the streetlights that had just flickered to life. Folks were hailing taxis or hopping onto buses—those were either the tourists or the lower-class elites. Some walked hurriedly away from the stores and restaurants, back to their apartments where Oswald imagined a friend, a lover, a spouse, a child . . . a parent . . . was waiting for them. Grimier others were slinking into the bars, lured by the promise of warmth from a bottle and perchance from someone’s arms. _Anyone’s_ arms.

A chill went through him as he stared at the recumbent angels in the snow. Were they dead or asleep? The snow started falling again and he leaned over, balancing himself on his umbrella and good leg, to scoop the white substance out of the impression of the angels.

 _A little snowbird of angel_. That’s what he had thought of her when he had seen her standing outside the trailer. Waiting on him.

 _Is she still waiting on me_? _Cassandra, do you need me_? His gut twisted. _I fail her daily_. _I have failed her. She is dead, and it is through my own careless decisions—by own hand_. He looked at his gloved hand and turned it palm up. Some of the pristine flakes clung briefly to the black leather before dissolving away. Gone forever. He glanced back down at the angels at his feet to see their bodies quickly being filled in by the icy substance.

 _I must remove the snow_ , he thought frantically, a sudden irrationality bombarding him— _keep it from suffocating the winged creatures_.

The snowflakes became heavier and were filling in the cavities.

_Once these canyons are filled, the angels will be gone completely. Disappeared, as if they never existed._

He was becoming desperate. The pace of the snow was increasing. He looked heavenward upon this very unclear night, almost as if he were begging the rising moon for help, but encountered only darkened clouds. Snowflakes landed on his lashes and in his eyes. He gazed back down at the angels who seemed to be holding a collective breath, waiting to see if he would help them.

He could only save one.

Oswald tossed aside his umbrella and sunk to his knees, the agony in his leg his penance for his failures— _I cannot even keep her alive on paper_!—and dug at the snow like a rabid dog discovering raw flesh. The icy wetness that permeated his pants from the knees down did not bother him, the cold never did.  

From behind him came the sudden squall of a bagpipe and a lively holiday ditty as someone exited from the bar a few feet behind Oswald. The drunken patrons continued to slur the song as they tripped towards him, one of them shoving his side. The gentlemen were in such a booze-filled stupor that they had not noticed Oswald or the collection of angels reclining in front him, instead absentmindedly traipsing through the soft, glittering snow, kicking a fine arctic mist upon Oswald’s face and effortlessly destroying the heavenly host.

Oswald glared at them as they weaved down the walkway, his mouth pinched so tightly that his lips turned white and very nearly disappeared altogether. Their interruption had jolted him out of his trance, and he considered which one to kill first before the presence of a black limousine diverted his attention. Gabe got out of the driver’s side and opened the passenger door.

“You okay, boss?” Gabe asked, attempting to help Oswald from the sidewalk. He brushed his lieutenant’s hand away, using his umbrella to hoist himself (and the extra fifty pounds he had incurred over the years) up from the snow, still clutching the small bag. He no longer cared if Gabe or Fara caught him displaying any vulnerability. The three of them were far past that by now.

“I am fine. Thank you, Gabe,” he responded, then frowned, looking around the burly man and then back to him. “No replacement?”

Gabe shook his head and answered, “Working on it.”

Oswald had _deposed_ of the chauffeur only last week and no one was showing an interest in the position. He may have to volunteer someone already within his organization. Funny, he had always been under the impression that people coveted jobs right at Christmas. Pick up some extra moola.

Maybe it was because that was the third driver in five months to succumb to Oswald’s wrath. Seemed that The Penguin was particular when it came to drivers. Word on the street was they were calling it “The Spinal Tap Syndrome”, named for the untimely deaths of every drummer the pseudo band had ever had in its employ.

Or, maybe the drivers were just too incompetent. Oswald shrugged as he slid into the backseat and grabbed a bottle of Dom Perignon resting just inside the door, already chilled. It was going to give him gas, but he guzzled a third of it anyway and was glad in the fact that he did not have to demand that Gabe shut off the radio. It was already silent.

Every store he had passed and every business he had graced for the last two months played Christmas music, even the bars were not immune from the cheery music. Made him want to vomit honey. _Maybe next year I will stay at home and order everything from online_.

When one walked in a state of perpetual gloom, the music was more a funeral dirge than an ode to joy. Did the purveyors of these glorious compositions not realize that the suicide rate went up at Christmas? Perhaps, that was what the music was for—to prevent it.

Well, he was not dead—no thanks to holiday tunes. Although, he _was_ partial to Handel’s _Messiah_. It was listening to that oratorio—an uninhibited declaration of adulation and pure happiness that moved Oswald. The only Christmas music he could stomach.

He had stopped at a toy store earlier in the day—the same one he had patronized for the past ten years—and picked up a clockwork toy. This year he bought one that hopped—a little frog, in honor of the real ones Cassandra had chased when summer had come to her plot of earth outside of Gotham. He now had ten of the tiny, tottering toys, and he would add this one to the hope chest ( _what a stupid name_ ) he had been forced to graduate her things into—moving her clothes and snow globe and other memorabilia from a box that could no longer hold his memories. He had placed the chest in an area he had set apart for Cassandra as her sitting room, should she have ever needed a quiet escape to read the many books with which he had adorned the mahogany shelves. In the same room was her parent’s chest, once used to deliver a Wayne Enterprises executive to Theo Galavan, but was now back in Oswald’s possession. _For special deliveries_ , Oswald had told him, wanting to keep the chest near, and lo and behold, Galavan _had_ needed another important parcel in the personage of Mayor James. Fortunately, that had been the last delivery, and the chest was safe and sound in Oswald’s home, awaiting Cassandra’s return. He took a mental inventory of the presents he had bought her since her kidnapping.

Every Christmas, an automation.

Every birthday, a book.

Every anniversary of their nuptials, he procured something that would signify the corresponding traditional year-of gift. He thought himself rather clever this year and knew Cassandra would think so too—he had removed ten license plates from the cars in his chop shop, cut them into strips height-wise, arranged the numbers and letters to correspond with the date of their marriage, and then soldered the tin back together—a plate of many colors.

And then, of course, was the anniversary of her disappearance. For this one, there was always a complementary death, and this year a certain someone from within “the system” was going to sacrifice themselves on the altar of Cassandra. It had not taken Fara long to find the one who had dropped the ball, refused to keep his sweetheart alive.

They pulled up in front of a flat, the tires crunching in the snow. It looked like a gingerbread house from the good side of the pastry aisle, golden bronze and rimmed in vanilla icing. The perfect brownstone.

“This is the place?” Oswald asked.

Gabe nodded. “Yes, boss.” He handed him a fenced and, of course, _untraceable_ gun.

“Married?” he asked, removing his leather gloves and putting on a pair of white ones before taking the weapon and concealing it in his coat pocket.

“Yes.”

“Pity. Children?”

“No.” _Good_. Oswald would feel better about killing him. No loose ends crying over mommy and daddy. Not that he had _not_ done that before— _well_ , not himself _personally_ , he only arranged it—he just found he would prefer to not do it again. Such episodes can create monsters.

Oswald had not seen his own child in years. Well, that is to say, he had never spoken to him. On numerous occasions, he had seen Boo darting across the lawn at Gotham Academy, to which Oswald was paying his tuition. He had established a scholarship fund to sponsor students he felt deserving. It was how he got away with paying for the boy’s needs without anyone suspecting he had a son, and Boo _was_ his—no matter what the law said. Just like Cassandra _was_ alive—no matter what the state decided.

And, _besides_ , it did not hurt that it made him look like a champion of educational rights for the less fortunate. Had gained him _some_ respect from the elite, even if it _was_ counterfeit. Amazing what people were willing to overlook if they thought you might benefit them in some way, ANY way—whether through power, money, or information. Money seemed to speak the loudest and Oswald was never at a loss for takers, from unfortunates in tattered clothing to those in furs and diamonds—they welcomed him with open arms and would just as easily shove him out if his fortune dwindled. Until then, they begrudgingly endured him.

If his name was sullied, so was theirs. So they pretended his past indiscretions had never occurred and the ones he was committing now were based on unfounded rumors. Citizens draped in imported silk and Swarovski crystals grinned coldly at him, shook his hands, praised him publically, sent him invitations to the most-coveted events, and yet still despised him, feared him, silently, just underneath their pearly-powdered, lavender-lotioned skins.

The underworld elite catered to his appetites, delivering to him the finest in spirits or delicacies, any weapon he requested from anywhere in the world, promises of loyalty and undying devotion (usually forfeited once they found themselves dying), and requests for his presence at various gambling events and boxing matches. For these goons, the words “apathy” and “dread” came to their minds when someone mention the moniker The Penguin.

The lowliest and most vulnerable just tried to avoid him.

Poor Mr. Cobblepot had created these opinions all on his own. As his reputation for violence and avarice grew, so did society’s abhorrence of his company. He was not naïve; he knew what they thought.

But, he had bought them—the rich and the poor alike.

Bought them all.

 _Must have missed one_ , Oswald lamented as he rode the elevator to the top floor. _Another failing on my part_.

It was a shame to have to slash the dainty throat of the man’s pretty wife. Oswald however was grateful that there were no children around to witness the attack. Had the man not been married, it was going to be a single suicide, but this would work just as well, better even. The bloke would experience for a few minutes the pain that Oswald had felt for ten years—watching his wife suffer, so really—Oswald was being merciful in killing him right away, landing in his wife’s blood to boot— _an added bonus_! The news staff will _love that_! Oswald could not have staged it better himself.

 _Oh, yeah, actually . . . I just did_. The couple was dead and the radio was playing Christmas music, so he shot it too before throwing the gun down beside the wife, while the knife he had borrowed from their very kitchen, lay beside the husband. He made sure their fingerprints were on each weapon, respectively.

Oswald could picture it now. People would shake their heads and wonder what had gotten into the man, why he just snapped. _And, they were such a nice couple too, kept to themselves most of the time, never caused any trouble_ , their neighbors would say. Then the statistics on domestic violence would air with stories from those who had survived abuse—both women _and_ men—with the added juiciness that it happened around the holidays. That was the tree topper! Sure to sell papers!

When Oswald emerged from the building, he noticed that the snow had let up, and only then realized his hat was gone. He was glad he had not worn the bowler that day.

As the upstairs neighbors’ cries for help mixed with the strains of “Deck the Halls” warbling from some distant somewhere, Oswald laid down on the ground in front of the brownstone and made a snow angel before slipping back into the limo and leaving the neighborhood before the Gotham City Police Department arrived.

 _Enjoy your stocking stuffers, fellas_ , Oswald thought as he guzzled down the rest of the champagne.

It was Christmas Eve.

 _Fa_ the fucking _la_.


	2. Chapter 2

Harold Allnut’s favorite holiday was Christmas. He liked the sparkling lights, the music, and the feeling of comradery that seemed to permeate the entire festive season which lasted a solid two months. He liked it that the stores filled up with green and red before Halloween had passed, and only slightly pitied poor Thanksgiving that could never catch a break. He listened to the complaints that bounced, swirled, and whizzed around him, staying silent and secretly enjoying every silver tinsel and golden ornament and peppermint-infused everything that kept the air fresh and him in good spirits. Even the music was uplifting and he always kept his radio tuned to any station that would play Christmas carols 24/7—to the chagrin of his boss, Mr. Cobblepot.

Harold had just finished adhering a handle to one of Mr. Cobblepot’s latest umbrella inventions and placed it in the rack with the others before standing to stretch his muscles, his knees creating the sound of someone twisting bubble wrap, and went to the window to watch the snow fall, humming along to the music playing over the airwaves. He never hummed if someone else was in the room. Had to keep up the appearance of being deaf.

He rested his forehead against the window, enjoying the coolness against his skin, knowing he was tucked away someplace warm.

_This place sure beats the half-way homes and shelters_ , he thought. _And especially the cardboard boxes_.

“Grateful” was the sentiment he felt every day. He liked being here in the cozy home on the top floor of Oswald’s. The club was still operating, but underperforming, which did not really matter since it acted as a cover for other small-time crookery anyway. The low cash flow from this joint did not negatively affect his boss’s wallet. Not in the slightest. Mr. Cobblepot had opened The Iceberg Lounge, the coolest hotspot in Gotham, not long after his mother had died, and it had fast become THE place to be seen as well as THE place to eat, having been regularly featured on several “around the town” and “foodie” shows, as well as Page Six—in all its glorious hydra-like forms of media, and receiving top ratings and reviews from Zagat.

His boss had changed nothing in the office at Oswald’s, but told Harold he was welcome to make modifications to the rest of the upstairs rooms, even proposing adding a kitchenette to Harold’s living quarters. After an inspection of the other rooms, Harold was pleased to discover that most everything he would need to construct a small band of specialized weaponry was already present, but he would need a current computer network, and suggested closing off part of the hallway to widen half the rooms to accommodate. Mr. Cobblepot agreed and had said to order anything Harold needed with one stipulation, it had to be the best, even if that meant the most expensive. Mr. Cobblepot’s money could buy anything. And it did.

Harold _did_ have reservations about his boss from time to time, like whenever Oswald got that wild look in his eyes and Harold knew he was going to have to rig him a weapon that was deadlier than the last. He did not like doing that so much because _those particular_ weapons seemed more for unprovoked attacks than self-defense, but he resigned himself to doing so since Mr. Cobblepot would, on rare occasions when Harold protested, threaten to retrieve his caseworker to haul him back to Illinois—where Oswald knew Harold did not want to go. Oswald also used the lure of maybe seeing Cassandra again, if ever they could find her, and prodded Harold constantly—for years on end—if there was anything more he could remember about the masked creature and the rumor of The Court of Owls.

On those days, when his boss graced the languishing club, Harold wondered which personality would step off that elevator. It was the proverbial toss of the coin. Would the day bring a docile and accommodating Dr. Jekyll or an enraged and violent Mr. Hyde?

Oswald had never hit him. Mr. Cobblepot knew better if he was to get his toys; however, many objects _had_ been broken, holes in walls had been created, and some things had to be replaced. The hunchbacked man was not dumb. He knew this too—knew his boss would not risk him injury. Harold realized he was invaluable to Mr. Cobblepot for his skills in engineering and technology. Being incapacitated would have hampered the progress of fulfilling Oswald’s goals in the manner to which he wanted them filled—both on time and without error.

Harold hated to admit to himself that he liked the trust and attention Mr. Cobblepot had given him. It was such a change from the abuse he had endured for most of his life. His ego had been stroked by Oswald’s complete faith in his abilities to create anything the little murderer’s heart desired and he had been moved when he realized how desperate the well-dressed monster was to find Cassandra. Harold was more than glad to communicate to Oswald what little he knew about The Court. It was not a lot, but something was better than nothing, right? He whole-heartedly believed . . . _knew_ that Cassandra would be safer with Oswald than were he calculated she was now. He had viewed his boss on several occasions lamenting the loss of his wife and Harold had no qualms about helping him find her.

Ten years ago, Harold _had_ found her, only to see her shot down on the sidewalk of Gotham City. He had travelled from Illinois to the East Coast to warn her of an approaching danger, following leads and risking getting caught by his caseworker and returned back to the half-way house he shared with others. He was not supposed to leave the state without permission and usually he was a stickler for rules, but this was an emergency. He had managed to save a little bit of money earned from doing odd jobs throughout the years and bought a bus ticket that got him midway to Gotham, before walking and hitchhiking the rest of the distance. He only stuck to church vans or truckers for rides. He either had to listen to gospel or confessions. He preferred the gospel. Some of the confessions made his stomach churn. Sometimes he would fake being sick just to get out of the cab. He would take his chances on the dirt and asphalt until another ride came along. He thought it better just to stick to choir vans.

Harold had a stutter and people thought he was stupid because it took him longer than what is considered “normal” to voice his thoughts so, as a teenager, he used a tragic event—a fatal fire—to quit talking altogether. This led people to think he was deaf. He did not correct that assumption. It made it easier to find out things—secrets spoken in front of him as he was dismissed with a shrug. “It’s only Harold,” he would hear them say. “He’s deaf.”

_And you think_ I am _the one that is a moron_ , he thought.

Acting on the notion that people believed he could not hear, Harold learned sign language and communicated through writing notes and highlighting passages in books as well. It was not until he encountered some thugs who wanted to take him to “their boss” that he actually lost hearing in one ear. It would have helped if he had known who “their boss” was, Harold had been looking for him, knowing he was connected to Cassandra, his friend he was trying to protect. Instead, the deadly, desperate bird hunted him down.

For weeks, Harold had been living on the streets, turning to shelters when the weather got cold. He spent a better part of his time outside after he overheard a detective inquire with one of the shelter volunteers about Harold’s whereabouts. Harold had been standing nearby, hidden on the other side of a column when he heard a _Detective Gordon_ want to know if they had “ever seen this man . . . had a few questions to ask him.” The red-headed man who was with him—Harold noted he was also a cop—let it slip that Harold’s caseworker was also in town looking for him. The volunteer told them that too many bums passed through the shelters on any given day or night, and there was no way he could remember every single one of them.

Harold had considered going to the Gotham City Police Department and asking to see to the detectives, but he reasoned that once he did that, he would be on a one-way flight back to Illinois with his “handler”.

_Not yet_ , he would tell himself. I have to find the dark-haired man that was with Cassandra first. He figured he was her husband since Harold had also seen them with a child.

He waited every day for news about Cassandra, watching one of the TVs propped up at the shelter or stopping to gaze at the flickering screens in pawnshop windows. For days, the newsreel consisted of a panoramic shot of the courthouse, city hall, and the surrounding streets, focusing on the route the ambulance and black SUV had come barreling down. Harold had not seen what had occurred after the first shots. He had seen Cassandra fall, being caught by the man beside her and lowered to the concrete. He had then panicked and disappeared back the way he had come, zigzagging through the throngs of people that were rushing _towards_ the gunfire to get a better view and capture the event on smartphones.

In front of Rags 'n' Tatters pawnshop, Harold stood close to the glass—the muted glare from the sun reflected the grimy streets onto windows which were equally as grimy. He squinted as if that would help him see the moving images better. The video was being replayed because it had been recorded _live at the time of the shooting_!—the anchor was incredibly excited about that—and learned that the ambulance from the nearby hospital had been stolen but had not been recovered. No word about the SUV.

On the footage, the man Harold had seen Cassandra walk out with, had commandeered a police vehicle while clutching a bloodied toddler to his side, with a cop—Harold recognized him as Detective Gordon—jumping into the passenger seat. What happened next, Harold could not quite believe—the paramedic seemed to focus on the driver borrowing the cop car and stuck out his tongue at the man, as if teasing him. Even the reporters seemed not to believe it, and had asked for the camera to zoom and focus in on the man’s face, when he suddenly disappeared from screen, the result of being run over by the police vehicle. It was later determined that the mode of death was internal injuries, particularly the crushed skull and flattened brain.

_Well, that would do it_ , Harold mused. Apparently his head had popped open like a zit. Harold could only imagine the sound it had made. They had also recovered a knife from his leg, but it had nothing to do with actual cause of death.

_Too bad_ , thought Harold. He had seen the man mow the family down and had no pity for him.

Harold invoked that same sentiment when he woke up in an unfamiliar bed after having being beaten by those brutes on the street who had wanted to bring him to “their boss”.

Mission accomplished, it seemed.

He did not harbor much pity for them as he broke the jaw of one of his attackers. The thug clutched at it and moaned.

“He deserved that,” came a smooth voice. Harold had to control his impulse to immediately turn in the direction of the spoken words. The man whose jaw he had just dislocated frowned and left the room with the second assailant. Harold figured they had given him enough bruises that he would be blue before midnight. If only he had a fairy godmother to rescue him from whatever new misfortune was about to befall.

_Where does one hide when one is cerulean_? He eyed the shadowed figure in the corner and shivered when it chuckled.

“You can drop the pretense now, Mr. Allnut. Mr. Harold Allnut?” The voice mocked him. It knew exactly who he was, yet still prodded him for an answer. Harold did not respond. The pain in his ribs increased as he shifted into a more comfortable position and then became dull again. His chest felt tight and he looked down to discover that he had been bandaged up. There also was a butterfly stitch over his right eyebrow and iodine stains across his knuckles. Something tickled his ear and he rubbed it, pulling his fingers back to see traces of blood on them. He felt unbalanced, like he had water in his ear after a swim.

“I must apologize for that, but . . .” his host sighed dramatically. “If only you had come _quietly_. Pardon the pun.” There was a pause as the man drummed his fingers on the armchair. “My . . . _employees_ . . . got a tiny bit carried away. I never meant for harm to come to you.”

_Why do I not believe that_? thought Harold, who had reached back up to feel his ear. It was packed with gauze, but obviously some blood still seeped through.

“A medic has examined you and patched you up, as you see . . . you will be just _peachy_.” Upon hearing the word “peachy”, Harold realized he was a tad hungry, and very thirsty. The shadow addressed him again.

“May I interest you?” He saw the silhouette of the man’s arm and hand as he gestured to the small table beside the bed. Harold just then noticed a tinge of something sweet in the air.

“Help yourself. There is water, hot tea, red or white wine. Cookies or crackers. Some petit fours. Take your pick.” Harold hesitated, and the voice continued. “I am not going to poison you,” it laughed. “That is, not unless you give me reason.” Harold noticed that there was also a pencil and a small notepad on the table and he scribbled something down, tore the sheet along the ridges, and held it out towards his host. The man did not move. Harold traced over what he had written to make it bolder and held it up. The man leaned forward, but still Harold could not make out his face. The man laughed and leaned back.

“No, you are _not_ ,” he said.

_Huh. That was unexpected_. On the paper, which he now returned to the table, Harold had written: I AM DEAF. He was not sure what to do next. _Run for the door_? _Twiddle my thumbs_? _Drink all the wine and hope for the best_?

Harold felt like he was playing a game of chess, a game he was rather good at playing, winning many times. He certainly did not intend to lose now. Not unless he was up against a better, more cunning player. But he doubted it. After all, in his lonely childhood, he had needed a pastime other than reading to keep his mind active and to make the hours pass. It also had afforded him some time with other people where he did not have to communicate, except through wooden pieces on a checkered board.

The two men sat in silence regarding each other. At least, Harold thought the man was looking at him. Since he could not be sure, Harold slowly removed his gaze from the shadow in the corner and took his time studying the room. It was pleasant, resembling a mash-up of someone’s home and a motel room. There was writing on the wall and Harold could see snippets of the words, piecing them together until he recognized it as one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. It was a love poem.

As Harold was reading it, the voice spoke again, softer than before.

“Mr. Allnut. _Harold_. Your secret is safe with me. I know you are not deaf. I know you have a speech impediment . . . have had it since childhood . . . I can understand whatever suffering you have experienced. How the world treats those of us who are . . . better.” This got Harold’s attention. “I know you communicate through sign, writing, and books. I know you have an aptitude for construction and technology.”

The silhouette stood and started to approach Harold who also got to his feet. He could tell he was taller and brawnier than the figure, and this reassured him. He lamented that he could have been even taller, but his back deformity kept him from straightening up to his full length.  

“I know these things because . . .” The man stepped into the light and Harold’s features changed. He recognized the dark-haired man that had caught Cassandra as she fell, and Harold involuntarily muttered her name. It came out more as a hoarse grunt, but his host’s face collapsed when Harold spoke it. Harold could not decipher if it was rage, fear, despair, or triumph that registered on the man’s pale face, but he flew in closer to Harold, nearly tripping, and bunched the front of Harold’s shirt in his fist, glowering at him with crazed bright blue eyes.

“Tell me everything you know,” he demanded in a fierce whisper, spittle flying from his mouth.

That had been a decade ago, and since then Harold had created and tweaked umbrella weapons for Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, aka The Penguin, also known as the “boss” who had wanted a word with him those many years ago.

It was very nearly dinnertime, and since the chef had left the day before to spend time with his family over the holidays—Oswald’s had closed for a few days, Harold rummaged through the freezer in his mini-kitchen and pried a frozen boxed meal from the ice. He nuked his turkey dinner—complete with water-soaked corn and dried-up dressing—and settled down to a marathon of _A Christmas Carol_ (the one with Allister Sims) and _It’s A Wonderful Life_. He should have been sad, sitting there all alone, eating his rubbery Christmas Eve meal, but he was not. Harold had been freer and more content in his ten years in Gotham than he had at any point in his life.  And, deep down he knew it was because of Mr. Cobblepot—and in a warped way, because of Cassandra too, wherever she was—that is why he would do anything for them.

Build, search, spy. He was their guy.


	3. Chapter 3

_Ohmygooooosssh_! _He was such a beast at pinochle_!

He had won fifty dollars on the day that school let out for the holidays and he was going to use it to buy his grandmother a Christmas present _._ She had chastised him for bringing her gifts he had stolen, but he had never returned them to the stores, even when she insisted—going so far as saying she would walk him there herself. He would lie and say he had taken them back and all had been forgiven, but instead he had hocked them for a little extra cash which in turn he used to skip school and go to the movies or the arcade. Nobody ever questioned why a ten-year-old boy was wasting money in their establishment on a school day. Nobody cared. It was about the money after all. Sometimes he paid for his buddies so they could accompany him and they would make an afternoon of it, stopping to get burgers for lunch.

He was their leader. Their king . . . their _emperor_. Yeah, he reckoned he liked that better.

Nobody messed with them, with _him_. That is because Ignatius Ogilvy figured that even at his tender age, he was a badass. After all, he _was_ called into the principal’s office _at least_ three times a month— _yeah, that’s right, I’m a boss_ —for things Iggy considered minor, like graffiti in the boy’s toilets or wet, wadded up crap paper thrown into the girls. It was hilarious to hear them screech when the bombs flew in and stuck to the opposite wall. If the bombs stayed attached to the tile overnight, it was like prying off pieces of cement the next day. He had learned that smidgeon of information from the one time he got caught throwing the sopping paper projectiles and had to stay afterschool to remove them.

His criminal career also included him being caught smoking and trying to steal the teacher’s wallets and purses. But there was always a ready excuse or sad-eyed expression that usually demoted the intended punishment. He had been threatened with juvie so many times, he had lost count.

So he was the tough guy, the one even the older kids would not mess with because of his reputation for not fighting fair. He liked to draw blood, and being sneaky was a hobby. Ingrained in him from somewhere— _not_ by his grandmother, his mom’s mom _. I mean, really_. She even left the tags on the mattresses.

At least he would not have to steal her a gift. He could pay for it fair-and-square, even if he had cheated at cards to get the cash.

He sauntered into Rags ‘n’ Tatters pawnshop and purchased the string of pearls he had been eyeing for weeks.

“Real thing?” He had asked the proprietor Mr. Regan, as he bit down on a pearl as if he was an expert and had been buying jewelry all his life.

“Ay. Real thing. Why you out by yourself, Ignatius? It’s too dark. Where’s your grandmother?” He rang up the boy’s purchase.

“She’s at home. She’s expecting me.”

“You need a lift? Rory Junior is still here, he can give you one.”

“Naw. I’ll be alright. People know not to mess with me.”

Mr. Regan raised his brows and began to gift wrap Iggy’s purchase—on the house. “Oh, is that right?”

The boy nodded empathically. “I’ll cut them if they try. See?” He pulled a knife from his pocket and proudly displayed it to Mr. Regan. It was of obvious good quality and Mr. Regan nodded his approval before securing a red bow on the gift box and then placing it in a brown bag with twine handles.

“You know how to use that?”

“Sure thing. Watch.” Iggy held out the knife.

 _Click. Click. Click_.

“I like the way it sounds,” he stated as he took the bag from the shop owner.

He liked Mr. Regan. Iggy had made up his mind never to steal from his shop. Plus, he was the only person who was allowed to call him Ignatius. Well, him and his grandmother. Oh, yeah—and the teachers. Not that he could stop _them_ , and _boy_ how he had _tried_. Earned him detention once.

“Ay. Nice sound. Excellent blade. You be careful, Ignatius. I can get Rory, you know— _Rory_!” Mr. Regan bellowed into the backroom, but did not receive an answer.

Ignatius scampered to the door. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Regan. I am more than I seem.” He started to open the door and then turned back. “You let me know if anyone messes with you, Mr. Regan. I’ll take care of them.”

Mr. Regan grinned at the young boy. “I believe you would, Ignatius. Have a Merry Christmas, and wish the same to your grandmother for me.”

“I will, Mr. Regan, you too—Merry Christmas, I mean. Oh, and Happy . . . Happy . . .” He struggled to remember the word. Mr. Regan found it for him.

“Chanukah,” he said, failing miserably at hiding his amusement.

“ _Cha-nu-kah_ ,” Iggy repeated. “Happy . . . _Cha-nu-kah_.” Mr. Regan nodded and Iggy waved goodbye as he leaned against the door, pushing it open. The bell above him jingled as he walked out.

Around the same time, Oswald decided he needed to get out of the mansion. He had turned down several Christmas Eve party invitations, but was now rethinking that decision. He had already attended what felt like a hundred delightful ( _bleck_ ) yuletide celebrations and could not endure another one, especially now since New Year’s Eve was right around the corner. _Double bleck_.

Who would he kiss at the magical stroke of midnight? He closed his eyes and stretched his neck backwards, groaning.

 _Not that I feel any sort of true affection when I kiss anyone. Or am kissed_. _Which is rare_ , _and empty._ Any kiss he received was usually from someone who was trying to taste his money instead of him, and when he placed his lips on someone, it was out of pure attraction or need ( _how original_ )—a base urge—not any kind of devotion _._  

He allowed himself to remember what it was like to kiss Cassandra and have her enthusiastically return his advances, lingering on the memory before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. _Do not dwell on things that you have lost._ A sad laugh escaped his lips. Oswald had repeated this phrase to himself every day. It did no good.

The fire popped and there was a slight smokiness in the air. _The fire . . . the fire_. Other than that, there were no other noises.

 _It is too quiet here, too still_. He kicked the table with his good leg and knocked the bottle to the floor just to hear it crash.

Gabe was with his family in the other wing of the mansion, and Oswald had been invited to celebrate, but did not want to intrude. He had given Fara the night off and she was out with friends and would not return until much later. Honestly, he kind of just wanted to a have a self-deprecating pity party, and the bubbly alcohol had helped with that, but now it was no longer fun. He burped and got up from the leather chair and paced, attempting to release the gas in his nether regions. His intensities were cramping.

He strolled through the large empty house, full of furniture, but not warmth. That had been ripped from him. He gritted his teeth.

A succession of echoes bounced off the walls as he limped across the hardwood floors, not sure which direction he should actually take—just walking aimlessly—his wingtips tapping like dance shoes with each irregular step. It was like a maze, a giant house that felt more like a trap than a home.

 _Where am I going? I am a living ghost haunting the dead_.

He stood underneath the lintel of an immense entryway that opened into a formal living room, and leaned against the jambs. The room was stark in its lack of color, seeming almost antiseptic with its white plush carpet and ivory walls. In front of a vast bay window that housed a built-in settee was a black baby grand piano, the centerpiece, and Oswald considered tickling the ivories, but decided to slump instead, staring past it and outside onto the lawn. Oh, how it glittered in the deepening evening, the snow looking more blue than white. _What time was it anyway_? _Around 7:30_?

 _Maybe I will go for a turn about the sparkling courtyard, or perhaps take a drive, test the snow tires on my new, custom-made black Cadillac SUV—_ a Merry Christmas present to himself. _Maybe a drive downtown, like, maybe, to Oswald’s. Maybe there_.

No, definitely not, he would not go there, he adamantly decided, although he knew damn well that was exactly where he was going to end up. At his first club—the one he had pirated from Fish.

Twice.

Well, she had threatened to take it from him when she made her ghostly second reappearance after fooling everyone into thinking she was dead—disappeared in an undertow. Hey, he could not fault her for that—he had, after all, performed that little trick himself, and it had been a rebirth. A purification, if one will. A cleanse. A transformation into something else.

Fish had resurrected into a creature much more lethal, and slightly perturbed—not at all happy with Oswald. She was a nightmare straight out of a Poe story, showing up as deadly and as menacing as a figure cloaked in red, proving noxious, but not to him. Not to Oswald, who beat the clock again and defeated that bringer of eternal sleep, tricking the Grim Reaper out of another notch on his bedpost of death.

 _It really should be a world’s record_ —Oswald had to hand it to himself— _the number of times I have escaped its claws._ It was almost laughable. He was impressed with his skill. When was he _not_? He had to pretend to be, at least—impressed with himself, worth something. To get through the days. Remind himself— _convince_ himself, more like it—that he was still alive and not an animated corpse, already dead, just waiting to rot. _He lived_! _He should live like it_!

Ugh, but sometimes it was just too tiring.

He needed to get out of the house even though doing so was blatantly unwise since the streets were packed with snow, its top layer crystalizing into ice as the night came and the temperatures dropped. But why should he care? What was he going to do? _Die_? Not hardly.

The champagne also was not helping in his quest to leave the premises. There was still a slight buzz, even though he had been pouting for nearly an hour. He thought the tickle in his blood would have cleared by now. Oswald plodded towards the kitchen and tore a bit of baguette to munch on in order to place something besides alcohol in his stomach. He tore another piece and added butter, before grabbing his coat— _formerly Maroni’s_ —and keys and slipped out the front door.

When he pulled up to Oswald’s, he parked halfway on the sidewalk, ignoring the slight bump as the vehicle came to a stop. He turned off the lights and unclicked his seatbelt before leaning back and closing his eyes, listening to the low hum of the heater. Another sound joined in, barely audible, and he sat up to turn the heat down, trying to decipher the direction the noise was coming from—it sounded like a child yelling—and Oswald had to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness—the shadows and objects merging too closely into one another, before he saw the group come around the corner, down a ways from his club, a few yards away.

Boredom and curiosity got the best of him, as well as added bravado from the residual champagne, and he shut off the vehicle before getting out. When he pressed the security button on his keyring causing his SUV to beep, he caught the attention of what looked like a group of college-aged kids picking on a young boy.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said approaching the bunch, a smirk playing upon his face. The snow crunched underneath his feet—gosh he liked how that sounded and felt—and he used his umbrella to steady himself. He noticed there were three of them, one wiry—in the back; one sort of tall—the soon-to-be-incapacitated leader, no doubt, in the front; and a stocky one that made up the middle. Oswald wanted to poke him to see what kind of filling he had.

The young men turned and crossed their arms over their chests. _What is this_? _West Side Story_? Oswald assumed that they were trying to look intimidating. He shook his head slightly.

 _Amateurs_. _When you’re a Jet . . ._

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, when he got to them. Oswald’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the boy. He was clutching a gift bag in one hand and a switchblade in the other. Oswald recognized the knife as his own. The last time he had seen that knife, it was stuck in the leg of Kim “Phil” Jong, the man who had shot and then kidnapped Cassandra. Oswald recognized the boy as his own too, and felt his heartrate increase. His boy was being bullied. That would not do.

Anger flowed through him like melted lava from a volcano.

“I don’t need no help!” Iggy piped up, his face red from fighting and screaming. He still had the knife, but one of the men had grabbed his grandmother’s present during the exchange. Oswald did notice that the child had cut his assailants, drawing a fair amount of blood, and he was immediately filled with fatherly pride _._

 _I always knew you were more mine than Ed’s_.

“That’s right!” said the tallest mugger. “He don’t need no help! Now, why don’t you move along, gimp!” All three of the men laughed.

“Yeah!” chimed in the stout one, obviously trying to fit in with the other two. He dragged his finger across his nose to remove an invisible booger. “What are you going to do? Beat us with your umbrella?”

When he said that, the third in the group stopped laughing and frowned a little, like he was trying to remember something that at this particular moment was really, _really_ important.

“Oh, I would not dream of it!” exclaimed Oswald, jovially. “This material is too expensive to risk getting your pansy-assed, Neanderthal-brained, small-peckered blood on it. Offense _completely_ meant.”

This did not make the leader happy. “Why you . . . I ought to . . .” He approached Oswald, his hands bunched into fists. Oswald turned up his umbrella and pressed a button, spraying fumes into the man's face. He fell over unconscious.

Oswald looked down at him. “ _I told you I wasn’t going to get my umbrella dirty_!” He regarded the others with a malevolent grin. “I guess he did not believe me. Now, gentleman . . .” he said, stepping over the body. “In light of current circumstances . . .” He saw the portly one curl his fingers into a fist. Oswald raised his index finger to him and scolded him. “Ah, ah, ah . . . learn from the mistakes of others.”

The third man shivered. “Is he dead?”

“In time.” Oswald flashed a predatory smile, flashing his teeth. The stout one drew back his fist. “You should really consider your actions,” Oswald told him. “I happen to know a man that relishes using a lot of fatback in his recipes. It rarely comes from pigs. At least, not the ones on four legs.”

“You should talk,” he sputtered, his eyes darting from side to side as if looking for an emergency exit.

“You are right! I should! And, I will! Now put your arm down,” he said, dismissively as if he had not a care in the world.

Iggy was entranced by this new player and scooted against the brick to watch Oswald.

“Now that I am talking, listen to me very carefully.” He grabbed the side of the pudgy man’s face and brought it near to his, the tip of his umbrella pointed into the man’s face. “Are you listening?” The young man did not answer, trying instead to stare Oswald down. Oswald felt movement and twisted his umbrella to catch his attacker’s arm and slam him against the wall beside Iggy. A stun gun fell from the man’s hand and Iggy grabbed it, holding it in the direction of the third man and shouting, “Don’t you move!” The man put his hands up.

“Nice work!” Oswald told him.  The man who the boy had the stun gun trained on spoke up, his voice shaking. He had suddenly and _untimely_ remembered what it was that was so important.

“I-I-I’m so s-s-s-sorry, Mr. Penguin!”

“What!” the other guy tried to shout, but his cheeks were pressed firmly under Oswald’s hand and squashed against the wall. The other would-be mugger continued to spit out an apology.

“W-w-w-we didn’t know it was you . . .”

Oswald shrugged and wrinkled his nose. “Kind of sucks to be you two right now, doesn’t it? Well,” he jutted his chin over his shoulder. “Three.”

Releasing the tubby man, he grabbed his collar and shoved him backwards hard enough to send him sprawling butt first into the snow, where he crawled backwards away from Oswald and Iggy. Pointing and turning his umbrella in lazy circles, Oswald motioned to the gift bag the slim man held in his hand. “I do not believe that belongs to you,” he said, and watched as the man gingerly placed it in the snow. Iggy ran to get it and then returned to stand beside Oswald.

“ _Now_ let me tell you what you are going to do. You are going to get. _OFF. MY. STREET_. Then you are going to go home to your lovely wives, mothers, girlfriends, other . . . kiss them goodbye and then spend the rest of your short days looking over your shoulders. Your friend here,” Oswald gestured to the man on the ground. “He does not get _that_ brief reprieve. I have not extended that same courtesy to him. There are other _immediate_ plans awaiting _him_.” He looked back up at the men with a cheesy grin and blinked. “Well . . .” he paused. “ _What_ do you _say_?”

The men looked at each other, confused. Oswald rolled his eyes. _Whyyyy must I alwaaays deal with morons_? His nostrils flared and that luminous quality that had just adorned his face evaporated.

“ _Thank you_!” he yelled at them as if that was the most evident answer in the world. “You say ‘ _Thank you, Mr. Penguin for letting us see our families one last time’_!” Oswald threw his hands up in frustration. “You know what? Never mind. Shoot one of them, son,” he said with an exasperated sigh.

Iggy shot the stout one with the stun gun and he went down with a thud. “What would you like to do with the other one?” Oswald asked him. “It was, after all, _you_ they were accosting.” Before Iggy could answer, the other man dashed down the street into the darkness. Oswald pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes before looking back down at Iggy.

Oswald shrugged and regarded the boy who, he noted, was about a head shorter than himself. “It seems we shall have to save him for a rainy day, _which_ should not be too hard to find come spring. How does that sound?”

“Good.” The boy chipped away at the hardened snow with the heel of his boot. “I was holding my own, you know,” Iggy insisted, but obviously in awe of the man and wanting to impress him.

Oswald nodded in agreement. “Indeed. I would have never have dreamed of interrupting. It is just that they were dirtying up the front of my establishment. Nice blade, by the way, young man.”

The boy beamed up at him, but tried to hide his pleasure because—tough guy.

“You’re The Penguin.”

He smiled at Iggy, “Correct. And, you are . . .” Knowing full well who he was.

“Ignatius Ogilvy.”

“Well, Ignatius Ogilvy, we need to get these men off the street before they revive, and then see to it that you arrive safely home.”

“I am fine, sir. I can . . .”

“Nonsense,” said Oswald, digging out his phone and texting someone. He motioned for Iggy to come over as he sent the message and then kneeled by the overweight hoodlum, still lying on the sidewalk, twitching. Oswald searched the man’s pockets and found his wallet. Inside were a couple of hundred dollar bills. Oswald pulled them out and handed them to Iggy.

“Here. I believe you have earned this.” Iggy took the money, held it up to the light, and then folded them in half and placed them in his pants pocket.

“Thank you.” He watched as The Penguin removed the other man’s wallet. Oswald shook his head.

“No need to thank me. I mean it. You earned it.” Inside was a five hundred dollar bill. He did not remove it, but regarded the boy. He knew the grandmother was on a fixed income, but Oswald had always made sure “Boo” had everything he needed.

“You did well tonight. You have, young man, what is called _moxie_.” Oswald remembered using that adjective to describe him when he was a baby. “Do you know what that is?”

Iggy nodded. “Courage, determination.”

“Good,” Oswald nodded, relieved to see his money was buying the boy an education. He had been worried about the quality of teacher when he had first heard the boy’s grammar. Frightful.

Just then Harold exited out onto the street and Oswald directed him to help drag the men inside. Oswald told Iggy to follow. He wanted to keep an eye on him—not let him run off into the dark.

He pointed to Harold. “This is Harold,” he told him. “Very intelligent, but has a hearing problem. Practically deaf,” he said, giving Harold a knowing look. “This is Iggy,” he signed to Harold, to keep up appearances. Oswald had learned a few words here and there, but knew the alphabet front and back. Harold grunted at the boy and signed ‘hello’ before zip-tying the men to separate chairs.

Oswald stumbled his way through signing to Harold that he was taking Iggy home, but since he was speaking it aloud, Harold knew what he had said, even if some of the signed words had been incorrect.

“Shouldn’t you have a driver, or something?” Iggy asked, when he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Or something,” replied Oswald. “They do not seem to have any brains,” he hissed, failing to mention it was because they were spattered against a concrete wall. “None at all.”

“Like a scarecrow,” piped Iggy.

Oswald let out a small laugh and nodded, “Yes, most seemingly like a scarecrow. Tell me where to turn,” he said, although he knew exactly where Iggy lived.

“ _I_ could drive you,” Iggy stated, rather self-assuredly. Oswald glanced sideways at him.

“What?”

“ _I_ could be your chauffeur.”

“You are  . . . how old, if I may inquire?” Like he did not already know.

“I’m ten, but I am tall for my age.”

Oswald chuckled. “True, but you have to be sixteen to get a permit.”

“So?”

“And, you are too short. Even if you are tall for your age.”

The boy frowned. “Well, how do _you_ drive?” He looked down at Oswald’s feet. “We are almost the same height.”

Oswald pressed his lips together in tight grin and slowly shook his head. “There is that _moxie_ again.” He thought about the time Iggy had smacked him in the nose. “You _do_ know you are talking to the most-feared man in Gotham.”

“Are you saying there is something _wrong_ with my height?” the little boy asked, becoming defiant. Oswald was caught off guard. The child had turned the argument around.

“No. Your height is just right. Is there a reason you did not put on your seatbelt?” Oswald asked him.

“I ain’t wearing no seatbelt.”

“Is that so? Well, let us get a couple of things straight here so that there is no misunderstanding in the future. Number one, you _will_ wear a seatbelt if you want to ride in my car or be my chauffeur. I learned from personal experience that it is one of the _few_ laws with which I intend to follow. Number two, _never_ say the word ‘ain’t’ again in my presence. I highly doubt that is the type of grammar they are teaching you at Gotham Academy.”

“So I can be your driver?” Iggy’s face lit up like flashlight, and Oswald chuckled.

“In due time,” he said. “I will teach you how to drive. Once this snow melts away. In the meantime, come around _after_ school. _After_. Notice I said _after_. An education is important, whether you believe me or not. You need book smarts _and_ street smarts to survive. You know the city well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. You have heard the term ‘playing the bug’?”

“You mean gambling? I’m good at math. And, counting cards,” he said, wanting to add that last bit of information in case he could be useful in that area too.

Oswald nodded. “Good to know. Come around on weekends, if you can get away from your grandmother. I need another runner and you seem like a smart and ambitious young man. You will be paid each week.” He was using this an excuse to spend time with his son, even if Iggy did not know he was his. “Off the books, of course.”

Iggy could not believe his luck. The Penguin had offered him a job! He could not believe all the things he was going to learn. He could not wait to tell the fellows at school that he was working for The Penguin. “Right here,” he said, and Oswald pulled up in front of a modest, but inviting building.

“Hey,” Oswald nudged his son in the shoulder and handed him the five hundred dollar bill. “Here.” Watching the child’s eyes slowly widen when he realized the currency, Oswald had to bite the inside of his lower lip to keep from laughing. “If you do not show up next week, we will chalk it up to payment for work done— _or a Christmas bonus_!” he chortled. “If you _do_ show up, I expect you to be professional and take it seriously. I will be depending on you, should you accept.”

Iggy plucked the bill out of The Penguin’s fingers. “Thanks, Mr. Penguin! I’ll be there! You can count on me! Merry Christmas!”

Oswald was wistful. “Merry Christmas.” He pulled his card out of his breast pocket and handed it to Iggy. “Call me if you need anything.” The boy lowered himself to the ground and sprinted towards the building, his boots kicking up the snow as he ran. Oswald watched Iggy until he made it safely inside. He could see him wave through the door window until he was joined by his grandmother who gave him a great big bear hug.

Oswald’s chest felt heavy and he sighed. He wanted his wife more than anything, but was beyond grateful to have his son.

 _What a gift_! Christmas was suddenly starting to look fun again.


	4. Chapter 4

Oswald stayed at the club that night to take care of business. He pulled a foldaway bed into his office and set it up beside the fireplace, the hinges creaking as he adjusted it. There was no fire in the hearth, but being near it seemed to comfort him. He was exhausted, not bothering to place sheets on the thin mattress, only plopping down—the metal springs screeching—and removing his socks and shoes—they were damp from his traipse in the snow—and wiggling his toes. His nails needed a trim.

 _I will do that tomorrow_ , he sighed, laying back on the pillowless cot. _Way too tired right now_.

It had taken him a few phone calls to locate the particular chef he needed to pick up a _special_ delivery. Being Christmastime, the cook was out of the country on holiday vacation with his family, but Oswald had found someone who would retrieve the distasteful ( _or maybe tasty_ —he did not know) package on the man’s behalf. This was not something Oswald normally did—and it was a foray that made him a little squeamish (the phrase “you are what you eat” came to mind), _and_ he certainly did not want _this kind_ of meal served in _his_ establishments, but this was business after all, and where there was a demand . . .

He yawned and cursed his sore fingers.

 _The damn man must have brushed and flossed his teeth a few times a day_. It had been harder than normal to pull out all of the assailant’s teeth. _No one leads an attack on my son and gets away with it. Must have a pretty good dentist though—healthy choppers, strong roots_.

He had grabbed a different set of pliers and sang “you’ll be a dentist . . .” as he continued to extract the man’s molars, pushing through the task, telling the unsuccessful thief that if he wanted a necklace, he would have to make one himself—which, Oswald thought, looking back and chuckling (quite amused with himself), the man did. Oswald had used hot glue to adhere the man’s teeth to his own chest and around his neck. For a laugh, he gave him matching earrings.

 _What a pretty picture_!

Afterwards, Oswald slipped one tooth into his vest pocket as a souvenir.

When the chef’s courier arrived to pick up the aforementioned package, Oswald offered him the other one too—at no charge—and apologized for the mess. It was just easier to dispose of the body that way and— _as_ _an added benefit_!—he would not have to tidy up more than he already did, especially since Fara, who seemed to be born with a knack for these types of things, was not around to help him, and he never included Harold in the aftermath of such dealings. Frail soul.

Rubbing his chin, Oswald considered investing in a plant that manufactured shower curtains and wondered why he had not done so already.

He had watched the courier load both securely-wrapped men (fresh food is always best) in the back of the unmarked delivery truck (refrigerated) and nearly bawked at the “reuse, recycle” sticker on the bumper, complete with three crooked arrows combined to form a single green circle.

Never let it be said that The Penguin does not take sustainability issues seriously.

With the day’s business concluded, Oswald had cast a final glance to the black sky and returned to the purple darkness of his club. He had grabbed some frozen shrimp from the freezer, a bottle of cocktail sauce, and a moscato from the kitchen—the sweet wine a perfect pairing with the seafood—and immediately popped it open and took a swig, enjoying its figgy taste. It was after the shrimp had been thawed and ingested that he rested on the cot, his fingers laced behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, the bottle—now less than half full—on the floor beside him.

He still, on occasion, came here to study the map. It gave him “the big picture” as opposed to having to “grab and drag” an online map with the mouse whenever he viewed it on a monitor. Over the years, he had added hidden tunnels that were discovered by him and Edward Nygma after Ed had figured out how to open that secret door hidden behind the dumpster.

The man loved a good riddle.

He also had been the only person that cared enough to convince Oswald to remain in Gotham. Raise hell. And since Oswald believed himself to be devilish . . . and utterly, _utterly alone_ . . . he stayed.

Ed had proven himself to be a true friend, completely opposite of Ed’s other namesake (Ogilvy) who had betrayed him and Cassandra and was one of the few dead that did not rise again.

 _Cassandra_.

Fresh tears sprang to his eyes as he turned on his side to stare into the empty fireplace.

Oswald had lost count of the times he had diligently followed the signal on his cellphone that indicated her movement, but it always ended up being a wild goose chase. The little red dot would stop and Oswald—certain that he was in the right place—would frantically scan his surroundings, but to no avail. It was all in vain. She had not been there.

Many times he stood frozen in a state of solid panic, his brain locked up, not knowing how or what to think. Below him was the sewers with its tunnels and rats, above him the sky with its airplanes and blimps. And still the unmoving dot stared back at him. He could be standing in the exact coordinates located on the phone, but she was nowhere to be seen.

 It then dawned on him that the passages under the city may be the answer to his quagmire, and he choose to look there, using crowbars to remove man covers, even in the light of day. It anyone asked what he was doing—one rarely did because . . . who cares? He would simply answer with the crowbar upon the questioner’s skull and continue with his quest. This was before Ed’s genius discovery of how to get into the Wonderland Door—as the riddle-lover preferred to call it.

It was easy enough to make someone disappear in the dank sewers. Many times Oswald entertained the thought that something down there was eating the bodies, and he did not mean the rodents, yet even this gnawing suspicion did not deter him from his search. Rage and crazed longing was enough to brave him up for the sewers and whatever lurked there.

Every day he searched and each night he prowled the catacombs and streets of Gotham. This, of course, had been before her things had been mailed back to him and before he had discovered what was really happening in the hidden parts of the underground—the unSeelie kingdom of Indian Hill—a demented Dr. Seuss machine that burst forth doppelgangers and changelings.

But Cassandra was not there—she had not been spirited away to the chambers of Indian Hill—the way one would imagine a fairy would kidnap its human victim. He wished that she had been, just to find her. She also was not in Arkham Asylum, a place he knew too well after a short stint there, one that changed him forever, but she was near.

Only once did Oswald notice that when the little red dot moved, so did the blimp overhead. Cassandra was in Gotham, even if it was only to be in the sky of the city.

 _I knew it_! Everyone had gotten used to the presence of the drifting sky ship, the citizens normally looking down instead of up. Why would one look up anyway, knowing full well they would only be rewarded with an eyeful of dirty rain or pigeon droppings.

He had eyed the passing dirigible and followed it home. It rarely came out during the day, and never anchored when it did. It was the most active at night and he trailed it back to the Powers Hotel, passing along that information to Detective Gordon and even convincing him to procure a search warrant for the building. It had taken a lot of threatening on Oswald’s part to get the judge to agree to issue one, but it was to no avail. Private apartments were not allowed to be searched. The police only had clearance to rifle through the uninhabited rooms and public areas. Their tied hands had come up empty.

The judge wound up dead.

A robbery, the cops had said and the news had parroted. Oswald suspected otherwise. He knew he was on the right track. Pissed them off—whoever they were _exactly_ , but deep down he knew—a parliament of dangerous, predatory nocturnal birds.

A recurring thought kept nagging at him. _Why did they not just kill me and get it over with_? _Surely, they have the resources_. _They had better do so, if they do not want me to find them. I will show no mercy_.

The Court of Owls was not a fairytale. It was real and they had it out for him— _personally_. That was another discovery by Ed. Inside one of the three journals from Cassandra’s parents were hieroglyphics and numbers and letters that were scrawled across a good portion of the pages. A code. One that, after time, Edward broke. 

“Oh, dear,” Oswald remembered Ed saying. They had been in his office at Oswald’s. He had looked up from the pages of her father’s engineering journal, feeling both annoyed and excited about Ed’s exclamation and asked, “What is it, Ed?” careful not to let his impatience get the better of him.

Ed turned the book around and held it open flat towards Oswald, as if Oswald had not _already seen_ the inside of the journal. Of course he had, he had scoured every page since he acquired the diary, making sure to skip nothing. He practically knew the book by heart.

“Yeah, I am staring at garbley-gook. I know that already. I have seen it a thousand times. So?”

Ed tapped his finger against the paper. “What would smell as sweet as a rose, even if it was not called a rose?” he asked, then ducked behind the journal, his eyes peering over.

Oswald shook his head and shrugged, raising his hands into the air, clearly irritated. “A name,” he guessed and Ed nodded.

“Yes! Yours to be precise.” He came around to stand at Oswald’s shoulders and laid the book open in front of him pointing to the gibberish.

“ _What_?” Oswald asked, looking at the parchment.

Ed tapped on the paper. “Right here. See this recurring order of lines and swirls?”

“Of course I see it, Ed. It is right in front of me. And, again I ask, so?”

With an impish grin on his face, Ed took a step back and clasped his hands under his chin. Oswald thought the man might burst, but instead he said, “That’s your name. Your name is in this book.”

Oswald stared at him a moment and then picked up the book, staring at it—not that it would do him any good—he did not know what he was looking at. Of all the places he wanted his name to be displayed or recorded for posterity, this journal was not it—he was certain. “Do you know what it says about me?”

“No . . . not yet . . . but it will be simple enough to deduct now that I have uncovered the key, _aaaannd_ . . . there’s more.” Ed paused for effect and wiggled his eyebrows. Oswald gestured for him to continue. Ed tapped his fingers on either side of his nose and adjusted his glasses. “Guess who else’s name is in there?”

Oswald sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I do not want to venture a guess, Ed.”

“One guess. I bet you’ll get it. Like the nose on your face, it’s plain. Through the years, he’s become your bane. Not only him, but Kane . . .”

“Ed, you are driving me insane . . .”

“. . . the heart of the city, pumping blood through her veins.” _The heart of the city_ , Oswald repeated in his mind. _The center_.

“Wayne? Are you telling me the other name in that journal . . . the other name listed with my name is _Wayne_? _Bruce Wayne_?”

Ed leaned in close and whispered, “Bravo, melancholy Dane.” Oswald leaned back in his leather chair and stared at the opposite wall. It was a few seconds later before he said anything. Ed was rocking back and forth on his feet, looking quite pleased with himself. Oswald strummed his fingers against the cushioned arm of the chair, and then looked back to Ed.

“Well, this is indeed an . . .”

“. . . enigma?” Ed finished his sentence.

“Well said,” grinned Oswald, sitting up. “Can you decipher the rest of it?” Ed cocked his brow at him and let out a snort.

“Do separate atoms or subatomic particles cooled to near absolute zero coalesce into a single quantum mechanical entity on a near-macroscopic scale?”

Oswald blinked at him. “I-I do not know . . .”

“Well, of course they do, silly! I can have this whipped out by the end of the day.”

Ed had been true to his word and together they discovered that The Court of Owls was a covert organization, incredibly violent, whose influence had spanned several years—to the founding of Gotham and further back—and had branches across Europe. According to the diary, the group was looking to expand their grasp back into Asia, where it had once been powerful, but the base of the operation was firmly rooted in Gotham.

These were not nice people, if they were even people. Christina, Cassandra’s mother, had scribbled that personal opinion down upon the pages. Her words indicated that the secret society had particular targets they wanted eliminated, and Oswald was troubled to find his name as well as the Anders name—Cassandra’s line—and Bruce’s bulleted in a list. Written sideways on the next page were the words: “Because of Kane”, but nothing else to give clue as to why.

Powers and Orchard were also mentioned in the book, underlined several times, as well as the words “Erastus” and “electrum”—but neither Oswald nor Ed had a clue to what that meant. Both the Powers and Orchard Hotels were well known. A search of real estate and newspaper archives could answer more questions—only Oswald was not sure what they _were_ yet.

He thought of Tawny Chouette’s attack on Cassandra and himself and how the records from her cellphone had come to a dead end. The bitch had used a device where minutes had to be added, and he had called all the nameless numbers in the contact list over and over, purchasing calling time in order to keep the minutes from running out. Soon Tawny’s number was blocked from reaching anyone on the list, so Oswald had to use one of his universal phones instead. Still, no one picked up. Probably because they did not recognize his number.                

Or maybe it was because they did.

He recorded their numbers in the journal in order to keep everything in one place and in case one of the assassins came after him. At least the information would be compiled and stored in his safe to be discovered by the GCPD should he “disappear” or wind up dead. Oswald had requested Gabe and Fara make sure Jim Gordon got the journals and all pertinent findings should anything happen to him.

Through the years, information had been thrown at Oswald like lose dollar bills and he frenetically tried to collect the data and place it in some kind of sensible order. But dreams at night and thoughts during the day of Cassandra kept Oswald from being able to coolly disconnect and gather his wits, always haunted by tortuous images of his soulmate being brutally harmed and left to die.

It was too much to consider, along with everything else. He hated disarray. He hated riddles. But, motivation—what drove people, made them tick— _that_ he liked, and if he could figure out the real incentive behind the cabal’s movement, he could find them and destroy them all.

But right now, he was pulling his hair out, figuratively speaking. The white strip down the middle of his bangs kept getting bigger.

It was all a conspiracy and he felt like a schizophrenic going mad— _would that not make him sane_?—because it was all too impossible to believe.

He was also having a hard—but exultant—time believing he had Iggy back in his life—that he could actually talk to him now, not watch him from afar. He wondered if the boy would show up next week. He hoped so. Having him back transported Oswald to a time when he was truly content. He had possessed it all for a moment, only to have it savagely and cruelly taken from him. He clenched his teeth and shivered, but it was from suppressed anger and painful yearning, not because he was chilly. Oswald did not need any blankets. He liked the cold and the ice.

It was snowing again, coming down in sideways sheets. He could hear giant snowflakes hitting the window. _Thud, thud, thud_. The wind howled.

 _Fries must be angry again_ , he chuckled, although he could relate to man’s pain. Losing a beloved mate was as bad as losing one’s own life. Oswald turned away from the fireplace, rolling onto his other side and lifted the rest of the wine to his mouth.

 _Cassandra_. Oswald could feel the bile burning in his stomach and knew the shrimp was about to make an appearance.

When he found the parties responsible for the disappearance of his wife, he was going to make diamonds out of them.


	5. Chapter 5

Cassandra was dead, but only on paper. Not as dead as a door nail, as the state wanted, or one driven into a coffin, but as alive as a phoenix, risen out of the ashes. _And I will have her back_.

This was the last thought Oswald had before he slipped into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened by tapping outside his office door and a subtle tinkling of glass chimes—an almost pleasant sound, as if his psyche was being gently tickled. It gave him happy goosebumps and an image of frozen champagne bubbles gently bouncing off one another.

_Harold must have a new toy for me to inspect_.

“Enter!” he called out, expecting his handyman to appear in the doorway. But no one entered. “Come in!” he yelled again, and still no answer or movement. He pulled himself up off the cot and weaved his way to the door, groggy and still feeling the effects of the fruity wine. His stomach protested as he staggered, angry at being jostled. One would have thought his gut was emptier than a wallet during tax season ( _except his, of course_ )—the shrimp, and most of the alcohol, having been voided into the trashcan. He switched on the light.

He opened the door only to encounter a barren and darkened hallway. _I am imagining things_ , Oswald thought. He looked either way, shrugged, shut the door, turned off the light and felt his way back to the cot. _Must have been dreaming_.

There was another tapping, but this time it sounded like it was coming from inside the room.  He felt for his pocketknife and slowly opened it.

“Whoever you are, you are about to meet death. _Slowly_ ,” he said into the darkness. A woman giggled and Oswald bolted out of the bed and switched on the light, frantically glancing around the room. He was sure he had seen movement, but now all was silent and still. He grabbed his leg and massaged it. Moving that fast had hurt.

“I believe I should inform you that I am not alone here.” No one answered. _What is wrong with me_? _There is no one else in the room_. He shook his head. Something he ate, he thought. Perhaps the shrimp was bad or the wine moldy. _It is indigestion of my brain_.

He rummaged around in the top drawer of his desk and found what he was looking for—a heavy-duty flashlight. He chuckled before clicking it on and turned the overhead light off. _I am becoming Cassandra—afraid of the dark_. This caused him pause _. Hers was with good reason. Is mine_?

He collected three of his umbrellas from the stand where he kept them by the door and sat back on the cot. After a few minutes of fighting sleep, his eyes drooped and his body gave in to fatigue, slumping sideways upon the mattress.

He heard the tapping and the chimes again and sat straight up, flicking the flashlight around the room and witnessed a flash of movement, a dark silhouette—a woman in profile with her hair upswept—calling to his mind the ebony upon ivory cameos that were so popular during the Victorian age. Then the specter was gone, like smoke bursting in on itself.

“ _Just something I ate_ . . .” He tried to convince himself, his eyes watering and the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. Feminine laughter met his ear again and he heard a familiar voice. He went rigid.

“Oh, Oswald, my good boy. Your mama is not a piece of digesting shrimp.” Doing the only logical thing left to do, Oswald passed out.

When he came to a moment later, he was laying on the cot with someone smoothing his hair back and crooning to him in a foreign language. He recognized the tune. Nygma and he sang it quite often. It was a lullaby.

“Mother?”

“Oh, here’s my baby boy. How you feel, little one? Hit his head and eyes all bloodshot. Are you not sleeping, _draguta_?”

He slowly shook his head and tried to sit up. “Mother?” She gently pushed him back down. “You must rest. You are going to have a busy night. Places to go, people to see.”

His bright blue eyes sparkled, full of hope. _First, Boo and now—Mother. It is too good to be true_. “Are . . . are you _really_ alive? Are you my mother?” The crease between his eyebrows deepened. “Or are you a ghastly clone come to haunt me in the cesspool of reality?” The mirage of Gertrud smiled down at him and looked around the office before she spoke.

“I see that whore of yours is no longer here.”

“Mother,” he said with relief and pulled her close, holding her firmly to himself. She caressed the back of his head and kissed his temple. “I am so sorry.”

“Whatever for, dear?”

“Galavan. Tabitha.”

“You were good boy. You always tried to protect your mother. You my Oswald.” He wheezed a silent cry before taking a deep breath and letting out a pathetic wail. “There, there,” she said. “Mother’s here.” She allowed herself to be held as his sobs shook his body and, subsequently, hers. “We haven’t much time,” she said, drawing back when his crying subsided. There were still streams of tears escaping his eyes and she wiped each one away as they flooded over his cheeks. His nose was stuffy and he smeared snot with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Wh—what do you mean?” His lower lip quivered and Gertrud was afraid a new tidal wave of tears would flow. He grabbed her hands and spoke earnestly. “Are you going somewhere?”

Her eyes grinned at him and there as a faint upward curve to her lips. She touch his face. “No, my dear, you are.” Her hand was soft against his cheek, the same one she had slapped years ago, leaving a red mark.

He protested. “But I do not wish to go anywhere. I wish to stay here with you.” _This is NOT FAIR_! _What is hap.Pen.Ing_? “ _Mother, please_!”

She reclaimed his hands and held them in her lap. “It is to help you. You will see.” She sighed dramatically. “Although I do not really want to do it. It will put you back in contact with the floozy.”

 Oswald did not understand. “You mean _Cassandra_?” Gertrud rolled her eyes and huffed, casting his hands aside.

“Of course I mean  . . .” She struggled to say the name, but instead chose to play with the jewels that encased her, her mood suddenly changing as she started to sway back and forth. She looked at Oswald coyly. “Do you like my new attire?” He did not remove the flashlight from beside him, too stunned to respond. “What a minute,” Gertrud said, then clapped her hands twice. The flashlight went out and the office light came on.

_How the hell did she do_ that? He was certain he had never installed technology that allowed for that, and upon reflection decided it was actually a good idea to do so. He would make a request to Harold later . . . .  when he was less afraid to move. Right now, he was just going to sit here and stare at his mother. She was dressed in a faded white dress, an old one from the looks of it—all lace and frills, yet dingy, with strands of crystal rhinestones draped around and across her body.

_Like designer chains. Restraints for the well-to-do_. _A sparkly, shredded straitjacket_. Oswald had thought she was wearing a silvery crocheted shawl. That was not the case. She was donning a web of gems that hung over her shoulders and encircled her arms, and dragged behind her like the train of a wedding veil. _The crystals. This is what I had heard. The tinkling of the gems striking each other as she moved_.

Oswald gasped and let out another sigh. “I am very confused. Sense and perception has escaped me.” He swung his legs over the side of the cot and began the tried-and-true process of ripping off his weak nails, quoting Byron for comfort. It was almost like saying a prayer. “‘ _Sleep hath its own world, and a wide realm of wild reality’_. _Therefore_ , I am having a dream. Nothing more than a dr—.” Before he could finish his sentence, Gertrud stood and rattled her jewelry, letting out a scream that would frighten the green out of a leaf.

“Naughty boy!”

Oswald had seen that stance many times—pointing her finger at him and stomping her foot. _That ear-deafening, soul-quaking, my-hair-will-be-turning-even-whiter now scream was new though_. When he realized that Harold, who still had hearing in one ear, had not come running through the door, Oswald realized he might be in a bit of a pickle. What new manner of madness had just been thrust upon him?

Gertrud began her rant. “I am not seafood nor cocktail sauce nor sweet wine! Nor am I a dream or a hallucination. And, _you are not going crazy_!” She raised her hands to the ceiling in exasperation. The crystals clinked against each other and glinted in light.

“So you _live_?” he asked meekly.

“Not exactly. Not in the state you are used to seeing me in.” She fluffed her sleeves and arranged the strands of crystals on her arms and the loops that cascaded over her chest. She saw Oswald looking at her with trepidation. “Oh, now, Oswald . . .” She scrunched his face together with one hand, pursing his lips. “You trust your mama! Your mama take care of you. This is good for you, _consimţire_? Yes? You see. You believe. I help get slut back.”

“Stop calling her names—has death taught you nothing?”

Gertrud patted the side of his face. “You _baiat bun_ —good boy. Mama raised good boy to be good husband.” He pressed his face against her hand and closed his eyes. She grinned. “Good son,” she whispered with wistfulness. “Now, others will come. Three more. They cannot hurt you. They may want to hurt you. But, they can’t. Just remember that. No matter the illusion.”

“I thought you said you were not a hallucination.”

“We’re not. We are _elses_!” She smiled and turned in a circle. There was blood on her back and Oswald clenched his teeth to keep from throwing up the last of the wine. He could not look at her. If only he had not seen the blood.

 “You mean ghosts, spirits, haints . . . and on Christmas Eve, how Dickenesque.” He leaned forward and murmured to himself. “Now I _know_ I am only dreaming.”

When he looked back up his mother was gone, but a faint tinkling lingered and he heard her whisper that she loved him. He lay back on the cot and allowed the tears to roll down his face. “I henceforth swear to never indulge in moscato wine again!”

He heard a snicker and then a woman purred, “Well, that’s a pity.” Oswald jerked his head up. He knew the voice and was not happy to hear it. “I always did _enjoy_ _sweet_ things.”

“Fish!” Fear immediately clutched him and he scrambled away to stand on the other side of the foldaway bed, in the process grabbing one of his umbrellas and pointing the tip at her. “Do not come any closer! _And, why are you wet_?”

“ _Did you really just ask me that, boy_?”

“Ten years have passed. I am not your boy. I never was.”

“A sniveling boy is a sniveling boy and a snitch remains a snitch.”

Oswald smiled and titled his head to one side. “Do you _really_ want me to kill you again? It was soooooo much _fun_ the first time . . . _and_ the second time, at least it was for _me_.” He placed a hand on his chest. “Was it good for _you_? _Obviously_ , it must have been since you are back for more.”

Fish screeched and made a beeline for him, reaching for his neck, her nails thirsty for blood. “If only I could rip you to shreds!”

Oswald had the umbrella with the three vials: paralysis, hypnosis, and unconsciousness. He sprayed the paralysis. It had no effect except to cause Fish to flap her arms and hands to clear the haze.

“What is this crap? Smells like your guilty conscience.”

“How droll,” he responded, then, “Out of curiosity—what does my guilty conscience smell like?” He sniffed the air but did not smell anything peculiar.

“Lavender.” She bypassed the side of the cot to get to him. He sprayed the next poison: hypnosis.

“Stop!” he yelled, beginning to back up. Fish kept coming. “Hmmmm. Lilies?” She jutted her chin in the umbrella’s direction. “Press the last one.” He did. “Ah, gardenia,” she concluded as she fanned the fumes away. “Your guilty conscience smells like flowers. Let me guess—lavender is for setting up poor Liza; lilies are for Mommy Dearest, no doubt—is she no longer here to offer her skirt for you to hide behind?” She enjoyed the loathing she saw in his eyes. “But the gardenia . . .” She stopped and looked sideways tapping her cheek with one well-manicured claw. “That one . . . _that one_ has me puzzled.” She looked back towards Oswald and her eyes lit up, not as one discovering joyful news or a cure for cancer, but as the meanest and most popular high school cheerleader finding out the plain Jane school loser has a crush on the handsome star quarterback. Welcomed news when one wanted to torture somebody.

Fish gasped in delight. “I have it! Our little Pengy fell in love. Did you manage to get _her_ killed too? Apparently you did, otherwise, I would not be smelling your psyche.” She watched his fact contort. The last time she had seen him look like that, she had ended up being thrown over the edge of a very tall building. She should stop, but she could not help herself. “Awww . . . boy finds girl, girl laughs at boy, boy has her killed . . .”

“ _She never laughed at me_! _And, I did not kill her or want her dead_!”

Fish splayed her fingers over her heart. “My, my, my . . . the crippled nobody fell hard.”

“How hard did that water feel when you fell to it—like cement? I certainly hope so. I hope you felt every one of your bones breaking against the impact.”

She paused and regarded him. _Quite pathetic looking_ , she surmised. Face twisted, mouth tight, eyes glowing with rage and full of tears. Plus, he had put on a few pounds. But, he had described it, falling so hard for another person that it was a surprise to one’s very essence. So he _had_ fallen. No passing crush or night of lust. She was familiar with that feeling. _Bullock_.

“Why are you _here_?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“To take you on a journey,” she answered, rather quietly for a woman of such fierceness. Her thoughts were still on Bullock, the jerk, who was not such a jerk, who was actually kind of great, who was actually the absolute best. To her. Always had been. She shook her head and imagined pieces of her memories with him scattering to the floor and evaporating.

Oswald threw his weaponized umbrella to the floor. He knew it would do him no good. The movement caught Fish’s attention. “Pick it up,” she said.

“What?”

“Your umbrella . . . pick it up and open it.” He did so and before he call her a nasty name they were both in a new location. A city street on the outskirts of Gotham where houses still existed, no matter the shambles they were in, modestly decorated for Christmas—think Detroit with glitter.

There was snow on the ground and although he was barefoot, Oswald did not feel the cold. Not at all. Not even a little bit. That was how he knew he was dreaming—his subconscious had transported him back home. _Home_. When he lived in a house and had a backyard—the place he would hide, escaping the abuse from his brothers and father, finding recluse in the company of crows, pigeons, finches, robins, whatever foul flew in for the day. Even bats had seemed to pity him as he concealed himself within hollowed out trees or high upon their branches. _When I could climb gracefully_ , Oswald thought, taking in the surroundings. It seemed bigger when he was younger, but now the backyard and home had dwarfed in his eyes. Even for someone as tiny as he.

“Why are we here?” he spat. It was the last Christmas his family celebrated—if you could call it that—as a unit. The Christmases after this one were much better. “Why start at this seam in time?” He knew what was coming and he dreaded it. Old hurts would bubble to the surface of his brain and what little was left of his heart. He did not want the memories, and he most certainly did not want Fish to witness them.

He turned to her and resisted pulling a piece of seaweed from her shoulder. She was still sopping wet, as if she had just stepped out of a pool—her hair remained slick and shiny, not frizzy—something which had been a nuisance to her when she was alive. He could still hear her berating him for not keeping the umbrella above her so that her hair would not kink. He really wished that it would now, just to piss her off, and even tried to will it in his dream, to absolute no avail. He huffed.

“Scared to be here little penguin?” Mockery was a natural skill for Fish. She could teach lessons at the local community college.

“No,” he said. “Just not sure why we are here is all.” He heard yelling from inside the house.

Fish started walking towards a window that had its curtains pulled back. “Ah, that must be your loving Papa. I certainly can’t wait to meet the fellow who helped craft our birdie boy here into the . . .” She looked back at Oswald and sneered. “Well, I certainly can’t say ‘ _man_ ’ now, can I? How about ‘ _whimpering coward_ ’ . . . that we all unfortunately know and deeply hate today.”

He stomped past her to the window, muttering as went by, “You certainly do not know me, _Maria_ ,” he said, invoking her given name: Maria Mercedes Mooney. “. . . and you never did. Losing the club to me twice should prove that point. Not to mention that _you_ are the one who is dead. Not me.”

She smiled wickedly. “Are you sure, _penguin_?”

He met her smile and blinked slowly. “Maybe you have not heard, _Em—_ you have no objections to me calling you that do you _, Em?_ But _,_ being that you are dead and all, residing in the underworld, no doubt, you have not heard the news—you _do_ receive news in hell, do you not? The newspapers and magazines . . . they do not catch fire, do they?”

_Fire._ He thought of Cassandra. _I know I am near to you dear heart. I can feel it_.

“I embraced the moniker The Penguin years ago and watched how it invoked terror in those who heard it. You meant the name to insult. It has not. Instead, it represents power, prestige, influence . . . and certain demise to my enemies, and even to some who are not. At least I had the presence of mind to not be named after _a car_.” He rolled his eyes and enjoyed watching the anger intensify on Fish’s face. Water droplets kept clinging to her eyelashes and cascading into her eyes. “Oh, where are my manners?” He held out his open umbrella to her. “I offer you my services. You are _all wet_. And, here I thought _wee widdle_ fishes _wiked_ water.” He shook his body a little bit to make his point and to aggravate her further.

Okay, mostly it was just to aggravate her further.

She screeched and charged him. Oswald closed his eyes tight and prepared to feel her nails gouge his face. When he felt nothing, save only a breeze, he looked up to see Fish breathing heavily and staring at her own hands in disbelief. She swiped at him again, her arms dissolving into his body as if he were pudding and she a spoon. He threw back his head and laughed, lolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek.

“Try not to feel too bad, Em. You gave it a good shot. It does not affect how I feel about you. I despise you as much now as I did five seconds ago.”

This time it was Fish’s turn to stomp past Oswald. “Come on. Let’s go. Where’re wasting time.” She walked right through the outside wall and into the house, peeking back at him when he did not follow. He could see her from her waist up, the rest of her hidden inside the house. He closed his eyes, took a breath and walked right through the wall to find himself in the living room, standing beside a ten-year-old Oswald.

“Here!” he heard his father bellow. “Don’t say I never gave you anything!” Thrown at Oswald’s feet was a rusty bicycle with flat tires. He looked at his brothers and their three new shiny bikes—blue, green, and red. His was black . . . mostly rust. Tiny Oswald realized his father had probably fished it out of the nearest dumpster. “Well, what do you say?”

“Yeah, what do you say, Oswald?” teased one of his brothers.

Tiny Oswald tried real hard not to cry. His daddy would never love him and he did not know why. He did not understand why some people behaved the way they did. But he learned as he got older. At this moment, however, he could not grasp that some people had no reasoning behind their actions. Some people were just plain mean. Little by little he grew to understand, and to use the desires of others to work for himself. At least now, when adult Oswald cut open someone’s vein or ruined someone’s livelihood, he had a legitimate reason. There was logic behind his actions.

He observed his former self, pitied him even, as Gertrud came and kneeled beside him, putting an arm around the unhappy child and patting his shoulders. “Now, what do you say, Oswald?” He looked at her and she seemed to be encouraging him.

“Thank you,” he squeaked out.

“You say it to _me_!” His father barked. Oswald and Gertrud jumped and turned to him. _Soon you will be dead old man. Why could you not just love me_?

“Th-th-thank you, F-father.” He felt him mom squeeze his shoulders before standing. She tried to lighten the mood by clasping her hands and announcing that the holiday feast was ready! Oswald wiped his eyes and followed them into the kitchen. _Last_. He was always last.

He had to put the spindle back into his chair to keep it steady. His brothers would loosen it to see if it would collapse when Oswald sat on it. It had become a running joke for them and a habit for him to always check it first.

Grown-up Oswald could feel Fish staring at him. “Happy now?” he asked her.

“No,” she said. “I don’t like you, Oswald. But that . . . what I just saw . . . was not fair. Not for a child. _Any child_. I know it because I lived a form of it too. No child deserves to be treated like that.” She paused. “I hope you killed him.” Oswald looked to her and grinned. She felt a shiver go through her ghost, but was oddly glad for this new knowledge. “And your brothers, it was you who did them in, wasn’t it?”

Oswald chuckled. “Maybe you do know me better than I realized.” He was interrupted by his brothers taunting little Oswald to eat the turkey, even slinging pieces at him. Grown-up Oswald watched his mother’s reaction. She smiled and rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

“Now, now, boys—stop your teasing . . . you are being naughty.” Her flippancy bothered Oswald and he realized he could feel his shared emotions with his younger self and looked towards the boy.

“Stop throwing the damn turkey!” His father bellowed. For a stunned moment, both Oswalds thought it was in defense of him. It was not. “I don’t work hard to buy you food and then have you waste it! You need it to grow big and get those sports scholarships. Don’t waste it on _that one_ ,” he said pointing a drumstick in Oswald’s direction. “Goodness knows he will not amount to anything. So stop pummeling the butterball with my Butterball.”

The scene faded into a new one. Same day, still in the kitchen, but it was just Gertrud and little Oswald, his brothers out riding their new bikes, his father working on a car in the garage. Gertrud slid something out from between her cooking books on the shelf. It was a book too, but not a cookbook, even though there were birds on the cover. “Look what I got you for Christmas.” Oswald let out a deep breath and looked wide-eyed at his mom. It was a book on birds, a different bird on each page with all kinds of information about them. His chubby hands hungrily grasped it.

“It is the best present I have ever received.” In the distance they could hear his father coming towards the backdoor. “How did you . . .”

“Go hide it,” she instructed. “Go hide it now.” Oswald nodded and ran to his room. He could hear his father ask Gertrud where the twenty-five dollars was that was supposed to be in the tin sugar can. He heard his mother say, “I can explain.”

_It was his fault_. It was _his fault_ that his dad hit his mother. _He_ could only hear the melee, but big Oswald now witnessed what he had only listened to as a child until his younger self could not stand it anymore and had climbed out his bedroom window to find solace in the woods.

Adult Oswald was devastated and enraged. He lept toward his parents, meaning to pry his abusive father off his mother, but fell right through them to the floor. When he looked up, the vision had morphed again and he was alone with his mother once more at Christmas. The room was barren. There was no furniture to be seen in any of the rooms, but the scene was peaceful and Oswald was enveloped in the feeling of contentment.

“You stayed with her all this time to make up for that, didn’t you?”

He shrugged and smiled sadly. “I stayed with her because she was my mother and I loved her. Love her. She had no one else who knew how to take care of her. Not that it is any business of yours.”

“So this lovely scene is a year later?”

He nodded.

“So you iced your father and all three of your brothers within a year’s time?”

He nodded again.

“At the age of ten?”

“I was a precocious child, or so I was told.”

Fish snapped her fingers. “Next!” They were at the club; Oswald was busily keeping the books. There was a Christmas party taking place around him, which he promptly ignored. He was in his early twenties and had been trying fervently to work his way up the ranks. He had plans. He was going places. No time for the frivolity going on around him. Even from the dancer who seemed to be flirting with him.

“Come dance with me,” she insisted. She had grabbed him from behind and he had nearly thrown her over his shoulder and across the bar from the fright of her sudden pounce. He looked back at the area where the tables and chairs were usually set up but had been placed to the side so that people could get down and boogie. It was a closed party—the staff and VIPs. Couples gyrated against each other and some could barely stand. _Disgusting_. He saw Falcone talking with Miss Mooney in a corner booth.

“Oh, _look_ , there I am,” said Fish, pointing to her more alive self. “Damn, I always looked good.”

“That is unequivocally true,” agreed Oswald. Fish looked at him as if mildly stunned. Oswald answered by shrugging one shoulder and slowly blinking his eyes. “Except for that Mohawk you got later. What were you _thinking_?” he asked, following the gaze of his younger self to the couple in the corner, but not getting an answer from Fish. There was someone else sitting with them in their hidden spot, he could not see the face, but did see the shoes. It was a man. Well, maybe, he guessed—could never tell nowadays.

The waitress pulled at his twin’s elbow, and he dislodged himself from her grasp.

“No. I do not wish to dance just now.” It was not that he could not dance—he was well-versed in tripping the light fantastic—he just would not dance. Not tonight. Or any other night. Who has time for that silliness?

He squelched the longing he had to have someone who wanted him hold him close with yearning and desperate romance. A real, true love, all his own. Such unadulterated pining was not to be found with a two-bit whore, especially one who had made fun of his looks in the past. “I have too much to do before the close of the year.” He turned his back on her and returned to concentrating on the numbers in the ledger. She hopped upon the bar to offer him an “accidental” view up her glittery red skirt. He stole a glance and felt his neck go hot. He was not entirely sure she was wearing any panties.

Fish snorted. “You always were a loyal employee . . . until you weren’t. I can’t believe you turned down free p—”

“Shut up, _Em_ ,” hissed Oswald, turning his attention back to his younger version, who was trying to shake himself of the unwanted tramp. Even now, Oswald found her distasteful.

“Oh, come on,” she whined, letting her fingers walk up his arm. “You think I stay around here for the tips?” His younger self leaned back and looked at her. His mother had warned him about women like her. _Floozies_. _Painted ladies_. _Women of the night_. Fish’s dancers not only danced on stage and around poles, they would dance wherever and whenever they were paid to wiggle—whether a virginal lap or experienced man’s bed. Sometimes, it was not even a man.

He hated that part of Fish’s business. All the germs. It made him shudder. He should start wearing gloves around here. What if the sticky stuff on the bar was not dried sugar from the mixed drinks after all? _Bleck_.

“Who paid you?” he asked her. She genuinely looked confused. “ _Who paid you_?”

“No one paid me, jerk.” She hopped down and hit him with her boa. “I did it for free,” she declared, before sauntering over to Butch. She looked back over her shoulder right before she wrapped an arm around his meaty frame and whispered something. They all looked over at Oswald and laughed. Someone handed Butch a wad of cash. Apparently, he had just won a bet.

_Typical_ , thought both Oswalds as they shook their heads simultaneously. Someone said, “light in the loafers”.

_They are the jerks. They do not know the first thing about me_. _What if I was—it would not be any of their business_. _Surely even if they combined their wits, they could come up with more fulfilling entertainment other than tormenting me. But, of course, with their rudimentary brains, that might be expecting too much._

Movement caught young Oswald’s eye and he watched as a familiar face stood and left the company of Falcone and Fish. Something in him changed a bit at that moment. He started thinking of all the connections within Gotham, from the most important and influential to those with lesser value who were vulnerable with ambition and, hopefully, stupidity. Mainly, he was thinking of Maroni who was born without the blessings of intellect, and Thomas Wayne, who was born into privilege and pedigree and who had just walked out the door.

Somehow, this was going to work for Oswald and he knew it. No more petty crimes. It was time for the big-kid stuff now. If he did not start planning, begin placing the pieces carefully, he would always remain a pawn to be bullied and kicked around. He closed his eyes. _The long con_ , he told himself _. It is about to commence_.

“What are you thinking _there_?” Asked Fish, pointing to the other Oswald. “With your eyes closed. What’s going on in your head?”

“I was just wondering how I could have turned down some free p—”

“Bullshit. This when you decided to turn traitor. It would still be down the line, but this was the moment you had made up your mind. So young, so devious—even as a pup.”

“I surmise you mean a hatchling.” It was more statement than question.

She grinned at him and grunted. “You wait. It will happen. It always does. Someone you trust will snatch it all away from you.” Oswald failed to mention to her that someone—some stranger—already had.

As young Oswald returned his nose to the book, older Oswald surveyed the room. He recognized most everyone there and another face popped up in the crowd. One he had not realized had been there and had overlooked, not expecting her presence to take up such meaning years later. It was Tawny and she was watching Oswald as he sat at the bar.

Fury coursed through his veins as he approached the woman seated alone at one of the higher tables. He knew she would take no notice of his presence, but he wanted to study everything about her up close.

“What do you want with _this_ stick figure?” Fish asked.

“Do you know who she is?”

“No. Why are you interested in her?”

“If you do not know who she is, why is she here? This was supposed to be a closed party.” He looked at Fish who looked at the young woman again and shook her head.

“I can only assume she is a guest of someone . . .” Just then, an older gentleman approached and gave Tawny a brief hug.

“I believe we have found her,” he said, settling onto the seat beside her. “But we have to be certain. Let me ingratiate myself to her, wait for the right moment, plant an idea in her head and if she follows through, we will know she is still ripe for the picking—otherwise, I can just kill her. She is past the age anyway. Following the name was difficult, but I am confident we have her—and besides, she already trusts me—grandfatherly fellow . . . needs a place to live . . .”

Tawny nodded and drank her wine cooler, her eyes never leaving the back of Cobblepot. Every now and then, he turned, sensing he was being watched, but unable to locate the culprit.

“That’s a representative from the Powers Hotel,” Fish said about the man, coughing up some water.

“What is his name?” When she gurgled, Oswald grabbed her shoulders and demanded, “ _What is his name_?”

Fish looked peaked and her body started to contort. “It’s . . .” Suddenly they were on the rooftop of the building where Fish had been tossed over the edge. She tried to speak again, but then Oswald saw that glint of hate in her eyes.

“Do not even dare to leave me, Fish! I need to know his name!” Water was running out of her ears and she spit a shell from her mouth. “I mean it, Fish. _Do not leave me_!” he snarled. She grinned with malice as she took a strong hold of him and choked out, “Then come with me!” Oswald felt his feet leave the brick as he was hurled with Fish to the dark water below. His back hit something hard and he woke up on the floor beside his cot.

“Well, that was graceful,” said a soft female voice. _Oh, no_. Oswald recognized it. He did not want to look at her. “Get up, Mr. Cobblepot. We haven’t got all night.” Soft material played upon his face. He opened his eyes and saw a dark figure through the sheer peach scarf that she was twirling across his eyes and around his nose. He moved it aside and looked up at Liza, who was wearing a dress of flowing peach chiffon, layered, with several pieces of it flaying about her like Medusa’s snakes. Her neck was covered by a matching scarf, long, the one she had used to tease his face just now.

“ _It was an accident_!” he blurted out.

“I don’t believe there are any accidents with you, Mr. Cobblepot,” she said, not a trace of fear or hate in her voice. She was very matter-of-fact about the situation they were both in right now. “Up,” she commanded again.

He stood, but stared at the floor. “Where to this time?”

“Open your umbrella,” she said. “And we shall see.” He turned and grabbed one of the two umbrellas now leaning against his cot. In an instant they were transported to the streets of Gotham, to an alleyway were men where unloading crates of wine and carrying them into a building.

“I know this place,” murmured Oswald.

“I am sure you know many places,” returned Liza. “Shall we go in?” They followed the men into the back halls to the kitchen of the Powers Hotel.

“I was here once before when I was searching for Cassandra,” he said.

“Who?”

“Oh, that is right. You would not know her. Never mind.”

“A love?”

“Does not matter. Disregard.”

“One cannot disregard love. Especially when it is true.”

Oswald turned away from her.

“I loved someone once,” she offered, sweet as a summer’s day. “I didn’t think that I would, but I loved him. He didn’t really love me in return. Can you guess who it was?” Oswald shook his head although he already knew the answer. He still refused to look at her. “Love takes many forms, parent/child, siblings, friends, lovers, child/parent . . . even a love in limbo. I loved Falcone although I am not sure _still_ in what form. I should have told him. It would have been the loving thing to do. So maybe I didn’t love him after all,” she shrugged. Softer she said, “And, you and I both know he did not love me.”

He dared to glance at her and saw the scarf that had hugged her neck slip away to reveal angry bruises in the shape of hand prints. Without thought, he reached up to rub his own neck. He looked away, ashamed of himself, but he was not about to let her see that. It had to be done, all those years ago. Right? Her death? She was merely a pawn, sacrificed to get him to where he is now. Which was where? Lonely and carrying on a rather lucid conversation with a hallucination.

“I like secrets, don’t you?” She motioned for him to come near. “Listen.” There was a couple in a deserted ballroom, deep in whispers. Oswald came closer to them. They were both younger than he and had that strange birdlike characteristics about them that Tawny did. The young woman spoke urgently and seemed very angry.

“You said you would help,” she hissed. “With or without you, I am letting her go.”

“I am not concerned with her. It is a new generation taking over. We will destroy the old ways, which are tedious and boring, and set this path back on its rightful purpose—and may I say, at a more prudent pace too. So let her go. I do not care for their theatrics. Having her escaped, with hints of a betrayal—”

“No names . . .”

“No names, of course not. It will demean him in the eyes of The Court. They will want a new leader. Play up his incompetency and play upon everyone else’s impatience.”

The young woman giggled. “You mean like your own?”

“You know what I’m impatient for,” he teased, grabbing her and giving her a deep kiss. “Let the woman go—I’ll be sure to make a way to get her out. But, she is on her own upon the streets of Gotham—blind or not.”

“And you promise to leave them alone. Leave them both alone?”

“If you are asking me not to kill Cobblepot. I won’t kill him.”

“And Cassandra?”

“I will not kill her either. Why are you so interested in them, my pet?”

“Because, they are my dolls and I want to play with them. Treasure them. Keep them safe upon a shelf.”

“The shelf being Gotham?” he asked, receiving a murmur and a kiss in response.  She was so _damn cute_ , if only she was not so gullible. He broke from her abruptly. “I have work to do.” A quick kiss was planted on her mouth. “I will see you tonight.”

“Tonight,” she repeated, watching him go before grabbing an apple out of a silver tray.

Oswald liked apples, they were sweet and the seeds contained amygdalin—which releases cyanide poisoning upon contact with enzymes in the stomach.

She threw it up in the air and then caught it before taking a big bite. Oswald grimaced. Were his eyes playing tricks on him, or did this chick have fangs for teeth? He did not recall Tawny having fangs—but then again, she had to blend in.

They followed her out of the room, through the corridors, and up some stairs into a private room. Someone was asleep on the bed and sat up at the sound of her name. Oswald collapsed. It was Cassandra.

His world was spinning and it seemed as if he had just gone deaf, the conversation going on around him as if he were at the bottom of a pool listening to the murmuring above him. Even his vision betrayed him as everything and everyone around him blurred into distance shadows. He could only see Cassandra. _Best dream_? _Worst dream_? Oswald was not sure.

He more crawled than walked to her, pressing himself against the side of the bed and gazing up at her as she propped herself on one elbow. It _was_ her—but what had they done to her eyes?

“ _Oh my G_ —” he choked. “ _What have they done to her_?” Liza had no answer for him. “Why would you bring me here, spirit? Will she stay this way? Can no one help her?” The room was coming back into focus and he breathed in deeply—an attempt to recapture the scent of gardenia in his nose. He could not smell anything. Not even the food the young woman had carted in on a tray to his wife. “Why would you show me this and leave me helpless to aid her?” he whispered. Lonely tears trailed out of the far corners of his eyes and his face was flushed. Liza saw him tremble.

_I will not feel sorry for him_ , Liza thought. _This is not for him—this is for HER_.

“You can. That is why you are here. You need a revival.”

“In my soul?”

“If you wish. You have become weary. You have not ceased in your searching—that is true, but because you have not rested from it, your mind is garbled. Start thinking again at what you do best; let everything else fall away. Wallow in your natural-born gifts. The way you deceive, twist, manipulate, plan ahead . . . play chess. It’s all here . . .” She placed her finger on his temple, but he did not feel it. “. . .  and in these nocturnal outings. You already have the knowledge. It’s already in your mind. Activate it.”

He tried several times during Liza’s monologue to touch Cassandra, but his hands went right through her. The young woman who had called Cassandra’s name presented her with the tray and insisted that she eat. Cassandra refused, but still the young woman was adamant. “You need to eat to keep up your strength. They should be missing you by now. Wondering where you are.” She laughed. “I can see them now, underground and overhead, scrambling like first responders putting out a fire.” She saw Cassandra flinch, and the young girl’s lip curled. “You will soon be free my caged little bird.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ve known you since I was a little girl.”

Cassandra frowned, but said nothing, then the young woman spun on her heels. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

“We need to go too,” said Liza to Oswald.

“No!” Oswald insisted, pulling himself up to sit beside Cassandra. The ache to hold her was destroying him. His heart was breaking with the longing to hear her say his name and laugh at anything he said. _Anything_. “I have to call Jim. I have to tell him I was right all along.” He searched his pockets, but did not have his cell phone with him. Spying a rotary phone on the bedside table, he went to pick up the receiver, but his hand melted through it like hot butter. “No! _No_!” He spun on Liza. “ _Fix this. You fix this_!”

“We need to leave. There is more to see.”

Oswald crossed his arms. “I’m not leaving.”

“Pick up your umbrella,” Liza said.

Oswald adamantly shook his head. “No.”

“You owe me.”

He scoffed. “Well, I am not paying with Cassandra,” he stated, not budging.

She raised an arm into the air and snapped her fingers. “We leave _now_!” The room changed. They were in a private dining area. A long ornate table was set with silver platters, gold utensils, and various fruit in the center for decoration. Lots of apples. A few men sat around it, their greedy hands grasping turkey drumsticks, the congealed juices plopping down onto china plates and becoming plastered to the inside corners of their gluttonous mouths.

Liza sang to herself, “No one bless you, evil gentlemen. Let me bring forth much dismay.”

Oswald could tell these gentlemen enjoyed ripping things apart. He cast a glare towards Liza and mouthed that he wished he could kill her for that. She laughed and touched her neck, reminding Oswald that he already had.

Their exit from the guest room had been premature. They had left too soon. If only they had stayed a minute longer, they would have witnessed another figure creep in to the room to tell Cassandra it was time for her shot. That figure was the young man who had been charming the infatuated woman in the ballroom.

“Don’t forget to continue your shots after you leave here,” he reminded Cassandra. “They are imperative to control your condition. You will be given a case of all the doses you need until your next scheduled checkup.”

There was, of course, no next scheduled checkup. There was however a scheduled death date. _It should take no longer than six months to have them both dead._ Then _he_ would be crowned King of the Court, with only one man more to take down—Bruce Wayne. But they would wait for that one.

He had lied. He really did not mind the long con. Cassandra and Oswald would both die as originally planned. And, he would have stolen The Court’s throne from its aging occupant, to lead them into a new dawn, a new age of power. He would use the one that liked to play with dry ice to help with that. The plan had already been set in motion. _Poor Nora Fries_ , he snickered. _On her deathbed_. _One way to make a loving husband quicken the process for cryogenics, longing for a cure for his dearly almost departed wife_.

_What is it about the state of marriage that is so appealing_ , he wondered, thinking of Oswald and Victor Fries, and countless other husbands The Court had destroyed by targeting their wives, their kids, and then ultimately their intended quarry.

Oswald presently made to leave the dining room and search for Cassandra himself, without any help from petulant ghosts.

“Oswald, wait!” Liza held her hands up, but Oswald walked right through her. She turned. “Oswald! This is important!”

“ _NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN GETTING MY WIFE BACK_!”

“Then listen to me! On one hand you’ve got rage, on the other—vengeance, with cunning layered on top. Place them together, and you will prevail—you will have your justice. But you must slow down and listen. You think I want to be here? You think I really want to help you after what you did to me?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “ _Falcone_ did it, and we can discuss why you are here on our way back to Cassandra’s room.” He turned on his good heel and headed toward the nearest door, not bothering to open it but, instead, walking right through it before passing through a stack of wine crates. “This blooming wine. I know the preferred by now.”

“Oswald, you’re wasting time.” He weaved through the hallways, and rode the elevators. “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”

“Honestly, I do not give a rat’s ass why you are here. And, as far as wasting time— _you_ know where to go, I have no doubt. If you really want to speed things up a bit, snap your magic fingers.” Oswald was surprised when she did. There were back inside the guest room where Cassandra had been sleeping. Only the young couple was to be seen. His wife was no longer there.

“She’s gone?” asked the girl.

The male nodded. “Free on the streets of Gotham.”

Oswald felt his blood run cold. _She is blind, for pity’s sake_! _Would some benevolent soul help her find her way home or would some fiend take advantage of her_? His knees buckled. “I have to go.”

“Yes, you do, but not after _her._ You have to go home. You have another appointment.”

Oswald dashed passed her, clenching his jaw from the intense pain shooting up his leg. He had been on it for too long tonight. “Try and stop me.” Oswald’s face met the floor and he twisted to get a look behind him. One of the many peach-colored strips from her dress that flapped about her like the tentacles of an octopus had grabbed him by his ankle.

“You are not supposed to be able to touch me!” he shouted.

Liza offered him a sad grin. “Not until it is time for me to depart. I have to insure that you make it back home to greet your last visitor.”

“ _No_!” Oswald gnashed his teeth and tried to claw his way toward the door, but because of his lack of nails, he had no traction.

Not that it would have mattered.

He could feel each the material wrapping itself around his legs as he struggled, slinking up to hug his waist, and then finally securing his arms and covering his face as he screamed. He could not breathe. He was going to suffocate. The peach chiffon wrapped itself around Oswald, encasing him in a pretty pastel cocoon.

He woke up fighting with the mattress, pushing it away from him and taking several deep breaths, before resting his face in his hands.

“Long night?” came the booming male voice. “Don’t need a bathroom break, do you, squealer?”

_Oh, G—_. For a moment, this voice caused his stomach to twist. Then he remembered who _he_ was, who Oswald was—King of Gotham, ruler of the masses. Maroni could not touch him. Well, not for a while anyway.

“Don’t mind me, Penguin. Just pee in your pants if you need to,” laughed Maroni. Oswald curled his lip and shook his head, before looking up. He noted that Maroni had a black hole in his forehead—the result of a very pissed-off Fish firing a bullet into his noggin a decade ago. It still oozed blood and . . . _what is that_? _Residual smoke from the bullet_? His suit was also black and just as cheap-looking as Oswald had remembered. _Must not be any tailors in the underworld_.

“I see you are still an uncouth boar, Maroni,” he said, grinning like an imp. Maroni took a puff from his cigar as if he were breathing in fresh mountain air. He did not exhale. Instead the tobacco smoke seeped through his gunshot wound, while at the same time drifting up from behind his head.

“The better to vex you with,” answered Maroni, ending his sentence with a preposition, which did _indeed_ vex Oswald.

Regardless of the dead mob boss torturing the English language, Oswald chuckled. “One thing I am learning from this experience is that death, although it may change the living, does not change the dead. Such a shame. Must be hell.”

“Stop your philosophizing and get your umbrella. I want to get this over with.” Oswald grimaced. Another preposition left stranded.

“Why? Do you have a _hot_ date?” Oswald enjoyed his pun. He thought he was _punny_. “Someone with a little sizzle?”

“So, how’s Cassandra?” Maroni asked him. “She around? I sure wouldn’t mind seeing that cherry again.”

Oswald narrowed his eyes and licked his lips. “Like you said—to paraphrase—let us waste no time embarking upon this expedition.” He could see Maroni mimicking him as he bent to retrieve the last umbrella. “This one contains a reservoir of propane.” He pointed it at Maroni and pressed a button. The fiery stream shot straight through Maroni without causing him any scorching or distress. He just stood there grinning at Oswald and smoking his cigar. Oswald slumped. “Dammit.”

Maroni laughed. “Hey, kid, it was worth a shot. I probably would have done the same thing. Let’s go.” He turned, revealing a cavity where the back of his head used to be. Maroni’s skull looked like a building that had fallen victim to a bomb blast, part of its innards dangling from the rafters.

_Oh well_ , thought Oswald. _Maroni did not use his brain when he was alive. He most certainly would not miss it now that he was dead._

He pressed the other button, which opened his umbrella and they were both immediately transported to sometime in the future, Oswald guessed. They were in Rags 'n' Tatters pawn shop. Rory Senior was no longer running the place, apparently. He did not see Rory Junior either and wondered if the shop had changed hands. He recognized Selina, who was propped against the counter, but she had aged. The lithe woman had still maintained her pretty face and attractive figure, even at _what_? Sixty? No sags on that kitty.

She must practice yoga.

The man behind the counter splayed his hands against the glass display. “Selina, why do you still keep coming here? You aren’t in need of any money and we all know it. Slumming?”

“Just keeping my paws in the game,” she bantered back at him.

“Yeah, well you’d better hurry before Rory J. gets back. You know he won’t take nothing that was stolen.”

“It was not stolen . . . _exactly_. The previous owner is deceased. Let’s just say I got to it before the state could. Not that he had anything left anyway. But this might have value. I almost kept it for myself. It’s really too pretty to be in a place like this.” Selina pulled a snowglobe out her sack. Oswald gasped and tried to take it from her. Of course, he could not and she handed it to the man behind the register. He let out whistle.

“That’s a mighty pretty piece,” he agreed. "Fine workmanship, but I don’t think I will get too much for it. Not a lot of demand for snowglobes nowadays, you understand. Not when kids can pull up a faux globe on their electronic doohickeys and give it a shake.”

Selina sneered. “Where’s the romance in _that_?” Then she smiled demurely and leaned toward the man. “Valentine’s Day will be here before you know it . . .” she purred. “Don’t you want to make your missus happy and bring her home something unique? Something original that no other woman owns? Hmmmm . . .” He turned red and his eyes glazed over. _This is working_ , she thought. He had that stupid dreamy look on his face that she had seen on many other men as she toyed with them to get her way. She batted her lashes to close the deal. He grinned like a fool but shook his head, sliding the globe back over to her.

“Tempting as always, Selina, but this time the answer is no.”

She scooted it back to him. “This is _crystal_ —not plastic or glass, which is all that is on the market. Your _bae_ will think highly of you if you bring it to her. Listen, it even plays music.” She wound the key and strands of “Someone to Watch Over Me” lilted out of the shiny brass contraption as the dancers began to move within the center of the globe. Both Selina and the merchant bent their heads closer to watch.

“It’s really lovely, Selina, it really is, but no.” He pushed back to her, and she in turned pushed it back to him.

“You should think about it. No rash decisions.”

“The answer is no, Selina.” He glided it over the glass counter back to her.

“Come on . . .” She mirrored his gesture.

Oswald was getting antsy. “They are going to break it,” he said under his breath. Maroni shrugged. Oswald knew he did not care. Nobody cared.

He watched the tennis match play out over the countertop, and his helplessness made him physically ill. He felt a panic attack looming. Selina and the clerk each had their hands on the globe and were forcefully pushing it back and forth until Oswald’s fear was realized—the globe tipped and crashed through the glass counter, shattering and sending crystal and porcelain and water all over the items on the top shelf.

“ _Nooooooooooooo_! _You idiots_! _Selina_! _Damn you_!” The music, once melodic and seductive was now warbled and ruined, halting every few notes, until it became silent for good. Oswald was visibly shaking. His hands were bunched into fists and there was sweat upon his brow. “I had so many chances to kill you, Selina. I should have taken one of them.”

“Now, now, little birdie,” teased Maroni. Oswald took a swing at him, although it did no good, only causing his leg to twist and he cried out, grabbing at his knee. Fuming now in pain and anger, he turned his sights back on Selina, his eyes bloodshot and his heart utterly broken. She sighed and chased invisible regret away with the wave of her hand.

“I should have just kept it. I didn’t completely hate him,” she said before sauntering towards the door.

“You owe me, Selina!” the merchant yelled while gesturing to the broken counter and items. She came back and took off her earrings. “They’re real,” she said, as she handed him the emerald earrings. “Merry Christmas.” Stunned, he did not answer her, but just watched her leave, the little bell jingling above the door. Selina was not concerned. She knew she would steal them back later.

“You must really be enjoying this,” muttered Oswald to Maroni. Maroni titled his head.

“Eh, look at this.” He snapped his fingers and they were in an office at Wayne Enterprises. A much older Iggy entered and walked over to a man standing in front of a vast window, surveying the city below. Bile caught in Oswald’s gullet and he forced it back down to his stomach, the acid burning the back of his throat.

“ _What the hell_?” He looked at Maroni. “My son is working for the Wayne’s now?”

Maroni clucked his tongue and snickered. “Much worse, my dear enemy. Much worse.” He laughed and puffed again on the cigar.

“Dad, I have those figures for you.” Oswald whipped his head around to see Iggy handing papers to Bruce Wayne. He felt his face go hot. Of course, Oswald could not know that Ignatius was really skimming some off the top and was happy to work on this project because he could control the numbers. Oswald would have been exceedingly proud to know this but, at the moment, all he saw swimming before his eyes was his nemesis who had laid claim to his son.

“ _How did this happen_?” Oswald wailed. “Why do you show me these things? Can they not be changed?”

“If it were up to me, that answer would be _no_. But, it’s not in my power to make your life miserable anymore. Well, that is—except for tonight, which, by the way, I’m enjoying immensely.”

“And, what about Cassandra? Where is she? What can you tell me of her?”

“Nothing. Nada. Not a thing. Wish the juicy broad was with me. But I can show you where _you_ are.” He blew smoke in Oswald’s face and Oswald coughed. That was not a good sign. He suspected it meant Maroni could do him harm in just a minute.

All Oswald saw was mist. It was cool upon his skin and smelled like the forest.

“And, voila!” declared Maroni. They were at the edge of Pauper’s Cemetery, where the poor, the unwanted, and the unclaimed were buried. This included everyone from sweetest and purest child to the lowliest of the insane or criminal. Death did not care who it ate. It devours the rich and the destitute alike. The good and the bad.

But Oswald did not want to be forgotten. He never imagined that he would have no name to linger on in Gotham. By golly, there had better be a street named after him.

“Why are we here, spirit? What connection could this graveyard have with me?”

Maroni chuckled, his amusement building until he was laughing aloud, the sound of his merriment bouncing off the mist and the iron gate of the cemetery. “Take a look, hotshot,” he said, holding out his hand in the direction of an unembellished plot. Oswald approached the bare piece of dirt and looked down at the metal engraving. On it was his name with the year of his birth. The year of his death was obscured and he tried to brush the dirt and grass away when he heard a click behind him.

“Get up,” Maroni ordered. Oswald raised and turned around. The mobster was holding a gun on him. “You are a nobody. Always have been a nobody. Always will be a nobody. No one will remember you or your family name. Have you so quickly forgotten what Selina said? That there was not hardly anything left of proof that you even existed? You will have nothing upon your death. No fortune. No name. No friends. No family. No love. No legacy. _Nothing_. They will not even remember you to make fun of you. That’s how little you matter.”

Oswald peered over his shoulder. There was an open grave behind him now—the scent of fresh dirt, but there was no coffin, only a dark abyss. He could not see the bottom. Doubted that there was one. The dirt was alive with cockroaches. Strange that such repulsive creatures could conjure pleasant memories of Cassandra.

This was a dream, he reminded himself. He narrowed his eyes at Maroni. “Do your best. It is your last chance.”

Maroni shrugged. “Nah. I might be seeing you soon.” He pulled the trigger and Oswald felt pain in-between his eyes. He was falling and hit something hard. Opening his eyes, he saw blood dripping from his face to the floor and sighed with relief when it dawned on him that he had hit his head on the wine bottle. He knocked it out of the way and placed his cheek on the floor of his office, overjoyed that the last of his nightmare had just left him.

Then, he started thinking about it. All that was said, implied, and seen. A plan started forming. He jumped up and raised the window, expanding his lungs to allow the cold air entrance. It felt wonderful—that icy chill. His dream had not been in vain. He was a renewed man.

Invigorated.

Calculating.

Hungry.

He grabbed his coat and began his search through the streets of Gotham, dialing Fara, Gabe, and Jim Gordon as he trudged through the snow. He could not explain to them how he knew his wife was roaming the city—and it may take some time to convince Gordon—but everyone else, the best of his “soldiers”, was ordered to be on high alert to find her. While he hunted the alleyways and homeless shelters for Cassandra, he contacted Nygma.

He had an idea for a game and the riddle man could help.

What a Merry Christmas this may shape up to be indeed! If only he could control his fear for his wandering wife, hoping fervently for her safe return or discovery. Either one, it mattered not, only that she be protected. It would all work out in the end, right? If not, then the dream was folly.

Still, whether or not so, he wished upon those who had a hand in tearing his family away from him to suffer as much. Suffer more.

_May all who have wronged me, wronged those I love, perish in agony_. _I curse them_. _Every one_!


	6. Chapter 6

_Ten years ago . . ._

Cassandra felt herself falling before she felt any pain, and when she did, it was deep and unrelenting—catching her off guard. She surmised this must be what it felt like to be burned alive—only the fire was inside her body. The left side of her chest felt like a sack of water-logged cement, hot as lava, and each gasp she took for breath seemed to expand the lung—like the organ was giving oxygen a great big bear hug and was not willing to let go.

 _It’s going to burst_ , she thought. _My lung is going to burst out of my chest, all over my husband. I probably shouldn’t make light of this._

Her lower torso hurt—not the skin, not really, kind of a dull ache, but inside . . . _inside_ it felt like her innards were at war with each other, tearing, bleeding, patching, and tearing again. She was light-headed and a little dizzy, but was aware of Oswald’s arms supporting her—lowering her to the pavement. _Have I been shot? Where’s Boo? Oh, he’s here, in the crook of my arm. Asleep. That’s all it is. He is asleep._

Above her, Oswald looked panicked. _He has not been hit. Good. Looks scared, but no blood—not hurt. He needs to check Boo_. Her heart rate increased. _What if Boo is hurt_? She could hear Oswald’s voice bringing her out a tunnel she was willingly trying to go down—to numb the pain. How odd and incredibly unpleasant the sensation. She smiled at him and wanted to touch his face, but her arms were too tired right now. She would try again in a minute.

 _His eyes . . . his eyes . . . how I always want them locked on me_ . . . She frowned and tried to turn her head. No strength. _Where’s Boo? Was he hit?_ She flicked her eyes downward. The child was now being held by Oswald, motionless. _No, please, let him be all right_. . . _just tired, that’s all_. Her throat tickled and she coughed before feeling wetness upon her lower lip. _It’s Oswald’s tears. That’s what it is_. _His tears. Ignore the pained look on his face and the fear in his eyes and the blood on his thumb as he wipes your mouth. Stay strong._

_Can’t. I think I’d like to go to sleep now._

“Boo . . .” she reminded him. He was the Prince of Gotham. Oswald had told her he would obey any command she gave him. _Protect Boo. That’s an order_. She whispered her request and Oswald nodded, saying that he would. She heard another bang and saw Oswald fall backwards. Cassandra fought to regain full consciousness, but it was like swimming through gel. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t focus. Couldn’t get to him. She couldn’t get to Boo. _I’m a failure. I’ve failed them._

_Where’s Gabe and Fara? Where’s Gertrud?_

_Where are the damn police? Their cars are right here! Where’s that James Gordon, in whom Oswald has so guilelessly placed his trust?_

She heard shouting and the clank of metal before the EMS workers hurried to her side and lifted her off the sidewalk. Her fingers brushed Oswald’s has they moved her to the gurney. _What were they saying? Shoot Oswald; need her? Something’s not right_. She heard one swear at the other before a mask was placed over her face and everything faded to black.

_Beep._

_What is that_? _Am I in a hospital_? The offensive odor of astringent invaded her nostrils and perked her brain back to a state of semi-awareness. A man was speaking, but it was not to her.

“It’s astounding. I’ve never seen anything like it. Like _her_. Watch.” She heard metal tap metal and then an intake of breath as people gasped.

 _How many are in here_? _Where’s Oswald_? _Boo_? _Please ._ . .

“We all know the liver regenerates, but I have never seen it do it at this rate. Do you know what this means? What this could do for our profits? What this could do for medical science? Is she healthy—I mean besides the obvious wounds?”

The other man snickered.

“Healthy? Watch this, and keep in mind this is being recorded.” Cassandra felt movement above her and slowly peeked through her lashes to get a bearing on her surroundings.

“Doctor, her heart rate is increasing.” Above her, she felt the man hesitate. “It has to be done. It was going to be done, sooner or later. May as well do it sooner and get it over with, so that I don’t have to open her up again.” Cassandra saw him reach toward her stomach, no, into her stomach, no, her bladder? Uterus? She felt that. She was splayed open for the world to see and the sensation she felt was excruciating. She imagined this was how a cave felt when stalagmites were pulled from its gut. She screamed.

“Doctor! Have mercy! Increase the anesthetic and place her completely back under. It’s a wonder she has not screamed before now! Don’t continue this!” The bed shook as the doctor slammed his hands down on its edges, accidentally nicking Cassandra’s arm. The small red mark gradually scarred over. Cassandra thought she had only been scratched.

“Did you see _that_? Did you _see_ that?” He raised his arms to make his point. “Probably felt like nothing to her. I was _beginning_ to wonder if she felt  _anything_ _at all_ and now I must determine what level her threshold of pain is—she’s a walking miracle! Now get out, all of you, if you cannot be silent and let me work!” Two more samples were taken and Cassandra screamed both times. He nodded giving permission to increase the medication and Cassandra gratefully passed out before he closed her up.

When she came to, she knew she was not alone. There was another presence in the room. She could hear the person breathing—as if he or she was in a deep sleep. Someone else entered the room. She stayed silent, hoping they would start talking and reveal some information she might not otherwise get.

“How’s our patient?” asked a male voice. A woman answered.

“Looks like her heart rate is increasing.” Cassandra tried to take slow, calming breathes. “She may wake up soon.” Footsteps approached her bed, heavy—either the man’s or the nurse was packing a few pounds. She felt fingers brush her bangs off her forehead and smooth her hair.

“Sorry about that,” he whispered, not really remorseful at all. Profits first, in the name of science. Think of all the people he could help and all the money he could make. Already the rich had been coming to him for years, desiring various body parts. Now with this new discovery, the government would be interested. Isn’t that what the visitor promised if he would take her? It was either him or Hugo, and there was no way Dulmacher was going to allow Hugo Strange get another government contract.

 _Indian Hill can kiss my ass_ , thought Dr. Dulmacher.

Of course, the agent had been livid that she had been shot. That was not part of the deal. Dulmacher had been paid thousands to rescue her and had been promised samples of her blood to help with ongoing secretive experiments. At the time, the doctor had wondered what would be so special about her blood. Now he was glad he accepted the assignment, even though she had been wounded. With anyone else, those injuries would have been fatal.

That he got to shoot Cobblepot was a bonus. Phil was an idiot and a bad aim. He was glad to be rid of him, although Dulmacher lamented that he had wasted a perfectly respectable tongue on the moron—replacing what had been ripped out in exchange for information on the whereabouts of Fish Mooney. Phil’s ear could not be saved. _Tsk. Tsk._ The whole operation had ended up being an utter waste of time and flesh—Cobblepot had already killed her.

But now I have this little flower, and if the agent wants her—the price will have to be renegotiated. The good doctor was rightfully incensed that the agent had not divulged the rest of this mystery woman’s secret.

Now he had leverage.

Not to mention tissue samples, and a harvested organ here and there. Surely they will not be missed. She will survive without them.

Too bad the doctor did not realize who he was really dealing with when planning his future bargaining chips with the agent—for that moment when he came a-courting. This acquaintance was actually a member of The Court of Owls. Dulmacher’s narcissism is what attracted The Court—any doctor could sew up Cassandra, but this doctor already had a bias towards Cobblepot that could be used to acquire their assassin. And, since Dulmacher thought highly of his talents and was constantly thinking about himself—he did not have time to think about anyone else. So it would be easy to overtake him should a problem occur and threaten him if necessary. Gerbils always did scare so easily. Cassandra would not be with Dulmacher for very long, only the ego-focused doctor did not know that—and if he put up a fight, it would end badly. For him.

He was unaware of what was really taking place around him, intoxicated by the implications that his new patient had revealed to him. He had taken enough of her liver to cultivate new ones, and the portion still within her would regenerate just as quickly. In no time at all, he would market his high-grade livers to alcoholics—or anyone with a liver disease—for a hefty price of course. _Because one cannot put a price tag on avoiding cirrhosis. Oh, wait, yes one could,_ he laughed, seeing dollar signs before his eyes and imagining himself rolling around in gold coins.

But he was _truly_ in it for the prestige. Perhaps a Nobel Peace Prize?

When he had first had her in surgery to remove the three bullets, a piece of her lung was excavated from where the first bullet had been embedded. He had gawked as the hole started healing itself right before his eyes, and with the help of a chest tube removing the excess blood and air that had threatened to tear the organ apart, she was able to start breathing again on her own rather quickly, her lungs simply soaking up the small amount of leftover blood. She had been fortunate the bullet had missed her heart and surrounding arteries.

For sake of discovery and knowledge, he decided to remove her untouched spleen. _Because, who really needs one, am I right_? And of course the appendix—might as well get rid of that too in order to avoid any future infection all together.

 _So I am doing good_. _Goodwill to men_. _Call me Asclepius, deity of medicine._ Then he had another thought _. Could her blood make me immortal_? _Younger_? He looked at himself in the stainless steel mirror. It warped his features.

He was gray, nearly bald, but still considered himself a rather handsome man. No one had ever disputed him, so it must be true, but what he _would not give_ to have a few more follicles on top, darker too would be nice. _Could I manipulate her blood to reverse or possibly slow down aging_?

He turned to look at her and frowned. _What caused this in the first place_? That was the real puzzle. He chewed on his lower lip. _At least I have tissue samples_ , he thought.

Of course, there was a bit of the sadist in him that performed an oocyte retrieval—eggs were a precious commodity—and removed her uterus, where the second of the three bullets had lodged.

 _What new breed of creature could I create with this_? he speculated.

Next, he had carefully removed the last and third bullet that was kissing her spine. There was nerve damage, but he was giddy in the certainty that she would heal herself—with no help from medical science from here on out. She probably would have no mobility issues at all. _Amazing_.

So many implications to this great discovery. He would become world renowned, respected, sought after, and _incredibly_ rich. _Why, yes, I would love to speak at your medical convention in Geneva and be the recurring featured contributor to The Journal of International Medical Research. What? You want me to be editor of The Journal of the American Medical Association? Sigh. If I can find the time._ Then he could continue his private experiments in medical luxury.

He chuckled. That would really irritate his “nemepal” Hugo. Bet _he_ hasn’t made any fascinating discoveries lately. Wiping the blood from his scalpel, Dulmacher pondered this and wondered why the anonymous person wanted _his_ patient.

 _Maybe, just maybe, I will not give her up at all_.


	7. Chapter 7

_Ten years ago . . ._

When Cassandra came to, she was greeted by a strange gray-haired man who sat watching her from across the room. His stare was as intent as a dieter eyeing cake. _Needs a napkin for all the drool_ , she thought.

“Where am I?” she asked, her voice raspy. She was thirsty. He got up from his chair and placed a plastic mug on the table beside her. It had a straw poking out of the top—the kind that was bendy. He answered her question with another one. “How do you feel?”

She considered it a moment and then said, “Sore. Pissed off. Concerned for my family. Where’s my husband and son? Where are my rings? My necklace.”

He leaned over the bedrail, checking her eyes with a small light and testing her pulse by placing two fingers on her inner wrist. “They interfered with surgery. They are in safe keeping.”

“I want them back.”

He offered her that same smug grin and turned to check the IV bag to which she was attached.

He was familiar. Cassandra recognized him. He was one of the men who had loaded her into the ambulance. He also happened to be the one who had caused her such agony and had treated her with glib indifference, putting her on display as if she were a sideshow spectacle. _Oswald, I get it now. I understand your reference. Feeling like an attraction in a circus_. “You cut me open,” she stated flatly. She couldn’t wait to kill him. Was even starting to feel better, as a matter of fact, just thinking about it.

“I saved your life,” he informed her, _corrected_ her rather, sounding like a condescending schoolmaster. She half expected him to pull out a ruler and smack her on the hand with it. Not that it would teach her a lesson. Instead, he reached for the mug and held it at an angle that allowed her sip through the straw, nudging her on her lips with it when she hesitated. “It’s water. You need it.”

Cassandra reluctantly sucked in the liquid and relaxed as the cold water chilled her body—she could actually feel it moving between her lungs to her stomach. It was like stepping into an air-conditioned room on a sweltering afternoon in August.

“Who are you?” she asked him, her voice clearer now, and tried to push herself up to sit. He smiled at her, and she was sure he would pat her on the top of her head at any moment.

Yep, she hated him.

“I am Dr. Dulmacher, and you are Cassandra Cobblepot? Is that correct?” In his hands he held a clipboard, which he then tucked under one armpit in order to raise the back of the bed to a more comfortable, upright position for her.

“Yes. Thank you. Where is my husband Oswald and my child?”

Dulmacher twiddled his fingers on the clipboard and offered that patronizing grin again before changing his expression to one of deepest sympathy.

 “I am very sorry to tell you that they did not make it.”

Cassandra felt her heart lodge in her throat. Her world had ended. It cannot be true. “I don’t believe you.” She could not live without them. Without Oswald. Without her little one.

“If there is anything I can do . . . wait, what are you doing? Where are you going? _Stop_.” But she had already pulled the IV out of her arm and was trying to lower the bedrail so she could get out of bed. That’s when she noticed the catheter.

“Get this thing out of me,” she demanded.

“You didn’t know it was there?” he asked.

Her bottom lip trembled. “Am I supposed to?”

He made a note on the clipboard and without looking up told her he would send in a female nurse to remove it, then walked out the door without any further explanations.

“ _I want my family_!” she screamed at his exiting back. Her request was met with the sound of her door being locked.

 _I am not in a hospital_ , she thought as curled back up on the bed. _Where am I_? _Where are THEY_? Her body went stiff from panic, imagining all kinds of terrible things happening to Oswald and Boo and she not knowing where to start to even begin her search, as if she could. Her thoughts were interrupted by the jingling of keys and then the entrance of a nurse. She looked kindly enough, but even rabid puppies were rabid.

“Are you in any pain?” she asked. Cassandra studied her—she looked to be about the same age as she and was short, like herself, but her frame was smaller. But, even being near in age, she carried a bright-eyed air of naiveté with her. Very fair-skinned, blonde hair—but a lot of it—like a Texas prom queen, in giant ringlets, no less. She repeated her question and Cassandra slowly shook her head _no_.

“That’s good to hear.” She paused. “I understand there is a device that needs removing?” Her eyebrows shot up and her chin tilted down as she indicated Cassandra’s lower region.

Cassandra nodded, then said, “And some items that need returning.”

The nurse washed her hands and slid on some gloves, pulling and snapping them into place. “Very well. Seeing as how you are up and Adam, I doubt it will become an issue to remove the catheter. It will only take a second. Unfortunately, I cannot help you with your other request.”

“Why not?” She did not answer Cassandra’s question, instead turning her attention to the business at hand.

When she was finished, she threw the catheter and accompanying tubes into a red wastebasket.  It had a lid on top and the words “bio-hazardous waste” was reassuringly emboldened in yellow across the top and sides. _How comforting_.

The nurse turned and gave Cassandra her most winning smile. “All done! And, when you need to, well . . . you know—you have your own private powder room. Right over here.” She approached an extra door and opened it. Cassandra could see a mirror and sink.

“Where exactly is _here_?” She tried asking _her_ , since she doubted any answers would be forthcoming from the doctor. Of course, she would be lucky to get any truth out of anyone in this place, she supposed.

“Father means well, he really does,” she remarked, opening the front of Cassandra’s gown to check on the stitches. Her eyebrows popped up again and she nodded, clearly impressed. _This is making me uncomfortable_ , Cassandra thought, and she closed her gown. “That’s extraordinary.” The nurse went on.  “What causes it, do you think? Your fast healing?”

“I have no clue. Never really paid attention to it. Just thought I was healthier than others.”

The nurse laughed at her remark.

“By the way,” she said. “I am the one who held your hand and asked Father to pump you full of meds again.”

“He really listens to you,” sneered Cassandra.

The nurse looked at her coldly. “He plans to keep you, you know.”

“What. Do. You. Mean?”

“He’s not going to give you up,” she explained, or rather _didn’t_. “The other one—he wants to take you away.”

“The other one? You mean my husband? Well, then, you had better do as he says if you want to keep that pretty face of yours, otherwise you will be wearing a mask for the rest of your life.”

“Well, we all wear a mask of some sort, don’t we?” She patted Cassandra’s arm. “It is not your husband—”

“Is he all right? Your father told me he was dead, and my son. Are they okay? Please tell me. Please. I’ll do anything you ask.”

The nurse smiled at her. “No need for that. I’ll just tell you. They are both alive and well, although your ‘son’ . . .” She gave Cassandra a knowing look. “. . . was returned to his rightful kin. His _real_ grandmother.”

Cassandra swallowed the sob in her throat. “I want to see Oswald.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. You have been bought and paid for by another. Besides, even though you heal quickly— _you are still healing_. Father patched up your lung and intestines and part of your liver and removed a bullet that was dangerously close to your spine, so I guess you don’t mind that he helped himself to some useless organs that you won’t be needing in the future.” When Cassandra did not answer her, she listed the items Cassandra could live without.

“A section of your liver—don’t worry, it will regenerate, livers do that—your spleen, the appendix—temperamental little things, and your uterus. He also harvested a few eggs and took blood samples.” Cassandra still could not find her voice. He might have well should have taken that too. The nurse approached her and took Cassandra’s hands in her own. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but think of it as being for the good of the people. Who knows what miraculous discoveries will emerge from your tissue, your blood, your DNA . . . how many people you may be able to help. You’re a heroine, really. So be proud of that.” Then she abruptly let go and walked towards the door. “I’ll get you something to eat. Be back in a jiffy-roo!”

Cassandra glanced around the room for anything she could use as a weapon. The tray of medical torture devices was gone and the cabinets were locked. In the corner ceiling of the room, there was a tinted glass orb, which Cassandra knew was a camera—like the ones they have in department stores. She was being watched. Maybe she would try again at night when she could turn off the lights—although she would have to leave one on in the bathroom, which sort of defeated the purpose. _They probably have night vision cameras anyway_ , she lamented and then chided herself for her negative attitude.

When the nurse returned a moment later, Cassandra asked her why she had told her all of this, considering that she would kill the lot of them when she was fully healed, and Oswald would help. The woman grinned and leaned her head to one side.

 _She certainly has inherited her father’s patronizing demeanor_ , Cassandra noted as she tried to ignore the rumbling in her stomach brought on by the smell of cooked meat. She hoped it was from something that could be eaten legally.

“When I was little,” the nurse began. “Father tested his theories, his . . . _experiments_ . . . on animals. Sometimes mice, sometimes cats, sometimes dogs or birds. Sometimes, I would take the smaller ones and put them in my dollhouse—but Father did not like that. Said they might escape. So I had to leave them in his lab, and I would talk to them as they sat stuck in their barren metal cages, not going anywhere. It seemed to comfort them—the human voice. Even when I spoke lovingly to them about what Father had planned and that there was no chance of escape—they still wiggled their whiskers and wagged their tails. Someone caring for them until it was their turn . . . and every one of them had a ‘ _their turn’_. So will you. That’s why I am not afraid to tell you anything.”

Panic was building in Cassandra’s chest. _Play it cool. Play it cool_. But her voice was shaky when she spoke.

“What can you tell me about this other person who has . . .” she nearly choked on the word, “. . . _bought_ me?”

“Nothing.”

Cassandra doubted her.

“No, really. Nothing. _Although_. . .” She came and sat on the bed, bringing the tray with her and placing it between them. “Rumor has it you are very valuable to them. I will admit, if they do happen to wrest you away from Father, I believe they are going to be rather angry about your missing organs. He was only supposed to take your blood.” She touched Cassandra’s arm as if to offer comfort. “Not all of it, mind you. Just some of it. Samples.”

 _Not all of it. Gotcha. Good to know._ Cassandra pressed her lips together _. My nurse is a mental patient. Where the hell am I_? _Oh, please don’t be Arkham_. Cassandra watched her carefully. Her eyes had glazed over and she looked like she was somewhere far away. “Yes, Father may pay for that.”

 _Be polite, this girl is a loon_.

“I am very good at what I do,” the blonde-haired woman said, suddenly snapping back into present time. Cassandra froze. Could she read minds?

“I am very good at what I do,” she repeated. “I am very good with a knife.” She smiled and lifted the lid on the platter. Cassandra was surprised at what she saw there—regular food. She had expected to see someone’s head, or maybe a foot or a hand. Instead, there was a cheeseburger—plain, without the fixings, and unseasoned fries to boot. _No utensils. How disappointing_.

“I did not bring you a drink, since you already had your water.” She indicated the mug on the bedside table. Cassandra glanced over her shoulder and grinned in her brain.

“Of course, water is better for me than, say, a soda anyway, right?” With lightning speed, she grabbed the straw, doubled it, and slashed the reinforced plastic corner across the nurse’s neck, opening the skin. The woman was too stunned to react immediately, so Cassandra pushed her off the bed and stood. As the woman scrambled to her feet, Cassandra attacked again and opened up her cheek before trying to jam the straw into one of her eyes.

“You bitch!” the nurse screamed. Cassandra was not pleased when she felt her hair being yanked. It did not hurt, it was just annoying. Besides, she really liked her hair and did not want anyone messing with it. She managed to pull away a little bit and had to stretch to grab the cheeseburger before a valiant attempt at cramming it down the woman’s throat. Cassandra laughed in victory when the nurse went from trying to make her bald to attempting to get ahold of Cassandra’s hands, fighting against the lunch she was being force fed. While the nurse gagged and spit out the burger, Cassandra jumped up and grabbed the platter, taking a swing but missed her when she rolled away. When the nurse attempted to open the door to flee, Cassandra grabbed her from behind and slammed her forehead into the door a few times, rendering her caregiver unconscious and leaving behind a bloody trail. She watched her sink to the floor.

“ _I’m really good at what I do too, bitch_.”

She looked up and saw Dulmacher frowning at her from behind the small glass window in the door. He had to shove the door open since his daughter was lying in front of it. She moaned and tried to sit up, holding her forehead. There was a nice gash across it.

Dulmacher knelt to check on her, while two attendants entered the room behind him, blocking any chance of escape. He helped his daughter to her feet and sat her in a chair by the door, then turned to glare at Cassandra.

“Hold her,” he said, as he held up a needle. Like, a really big needle. Like, one a veterinarian would use on a horse. “You obviously won’t feel a thing, but you are going to go to sleep for a while now, dear.” She kicked and screamed, but it did her no good. The last thing she remembered was the good doctor telling his daughter Matilda that this room was off limits to her. She was not allowed to be anywhere near it.

Cassandra whispered Oswald’s name and passed out.


	8. Chapter 8

_Ten years ago_ . . .

She woke up to the smell of smoke. _Oh, no, not again. Not another nightmare_. There was haze in the atmosphere and she could hear shouting. _Is no one coming to check on me_? She made sure she was not attached to any tubes or medical components and, satisfied that she was not a cyborg, slid out of the bed, a little wobbly on her feet, and shuffled to the door. She tried the handle, but it was locked, and out of frustration she slammed her fist against the steel. It did not make a dent. Angrily she kicked it several times, only stopping when she noticed the grooves her bare feet were making in the metal.

 _Did I really do this? Maybe if I had actually made contact with the orderlies, I might have been able to do some damage._ But the men had been more at her sides, restraining her, while the doctor administered the shot to her neck from behind.

Absentmindedly, she reached up and rubbed her neck as she knelt to look at the buckled steel. She ran her hand across the marks, but did not have long to inspect—the door was thrust open and the impact sent her skidding backwards against the wall where she bumped her head. When she looked up, a vision from her childhood stood in front of her, and she envisioned her heart leaping out of her chest and running out the door.

It was the creature she had set aflame back for its revenge, stepping out of the smoke and fire and shadows to claim her.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “I am here to retrieve you.”

She tried to back away, but ended up cornering herself. She wore only a gown. Modesty had been flung out the window as she scrambled away from him, trying locate _anything_ she could use as a weapon, or find some unrealistic place of refuge. _Where did all my bravado go_? she wondered. _Hadn’t I told Oswald I wanted to kill it_?

He continued advancing toward her. “This building is on fire. I am here to rescue you. Stop running. You have no place to go. You belong with us.” She made for one last dash of freedom as he reached to grab her, securing her gown in one hand, pulling her backwards and wrapping his other arm around her waist. “You are one of us,” he hissed.

 _Us. More than one_ , she thought. This might not be the killer she injured so long ago. _No, it’s only the whole blooming posse come to seek their vengeance. One big happy, goggle-sporting, cape-crusading, blade-wielding family. Nothing to worry about._

“We each have our talents,” he continued. “Our abilities, areas of interest that can be utilized.”

“Oh, yeah?” she said, through gritted teeth. “What’s yours?”

“One of them is strength,” he answered.

“No kidding.” She twisted in his grasp, but it was as he had said. He had an iron grip on her. “So what’s _mine_?” She let herself hang there like a ragdoll in his bulky arm. His other arm swung to and fro as if he was out for a Sunday walk along the pier.

He laughed. “We already know you are skillful with incendiary devices, but have yet to determine your other abilities.” She thought of the dents in the door.

“Maybe I’m strong too,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She kicked one of his knees with all her might using both legs and heard a crack and a gasp, before he opened up a litany of curse words.

“ _Well, that was stupid_ ,” he said. “So we know one of your gifts is not intelligence.” He started to give her a squeeze, but then remembered she had recently had surgery and he was not supposed to damage the goods. “I cannot heal fast enough to get us out of this inferno in time. You should know that.”

“Let me go or I’ll play footsie with your other knee.” She turned her head to look at him and saw his attention flicker elsewhere for just a second. He nodded and lowered her to the floor. It was warm from the heat.

She second guessed her actions when he dislodged a wall rail from its brackets and used it as a crutch. So far, the hall had remained untouched by the spreading fire, which seemed to be below them. _Up_ seemed to be logical place to go. She turned to look at him. “I hope you make it. I really do.” Then she turned to run down the hall.

“There’s more of us here!” he called out. “The Court doesn’t do anything halfway!” That revelation did _not_ stop her in her tracks. She was only concerned with one thing now and that was getting home.

“ _I don’t care about The Court of Owls right now! It is the last thing on my mind!”_ She sped up her pace _._

Her “liberator” limped after her, but the space between them was widening. “It should be the first! Who do you think sent us? We have swarmed the building, tying up loose ends, so to speak.”

“Great! Terrific. If you don’t take out the doctor, I’ll finish the job later! But, right now, I’m going home to my _family_!” she sobbed. _Even to that troublemaker Gertrud_.

“Oh, we have already seen to him,” the injured assailant said, referring to Dulmacher. “Tried to back out of the deal. He has been . . . _reprimanded_.” He skipped along behind her, using the railing to propel himself into a quicker stride. “You can’t escape The Court, Cassandra. Stop trying. We’re everywhere.”

She nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind. Let’s me know I need to keep a sharp lookout for—.” She was pummeled against the wall and hit her head. _Dammit. Second time today_. This attacker had sprinted out of the adjoining hallway.

“Immobilize her legs!” Her original captor yelled. There was a struggle. “It’s of no use! You’ll have to hit her!”

“I draw the line there,” came the other male voice. Cassandra kicked him in the arm and heard it break. “Or maybe not,” hissed the assailant.

“You _have_ to be one to hit her, if I do it . . .” he let that sink in. He might crack open her skull, which would further delay her special training. “We don’t have much time.” He looked over his shoulder. Fire was licking its way around the corner. “Do it! You know she’ll revive in minutes afterwards! Now do it before she breaks your other arm!”

The pain was minimal—a sting—like someone pinching her nose really hard, but it did the trick. After her assailant’s fist met her nose, she blacked out.

 _This is getting to be a habit_ , she thought as she slowly revived _. And now I’m jiggling_. She hated that word, but that’s what she was doing— _jiggling_. She was disorientated, upside down, and she felt something around her legs. Her head cleared and she recognized what she was looking at—somebody’s butt. It reminded her of being carried over the threshold of the club when Oswald had lifted her to one of his shoulders—throwing her over, caveman style. She grinned at the memory, but then immediately returned to faking unconsciousness. _I will get them when they least expect it._ Surprise attacks were always the most fun.

A door opened and she felt fresh air swirl around her body and rejuvenate her lungs, but she and her captors were not out of danger yet. The fire was near and crackling, the black smoke rising fast, and portions of the roof was beginning to collapse. She thought about what Dulmacher had taken from her and reveled in the fact that now it was all burned away, charred and scorched and diminished to ashes—he would never be able to use her organs or her blood. They were gone. Destroyed. _Good_. She almost cried with relief.

Wind whipped her hair and threatened to expose her hindquarters as it played with the hem of her gown, but that appreciatively was being held down by her “rescuer’s” arm. She peeked and saw that they were on the roof of the building, and Cassandra could hear a loud swishing noise, like a motor running in 3/3 time, imitating a waltz. As they got closer to the sound, Cassandra peeked again and took in the sight of the most beautiful blimp she had ever seen. Golden and shimmering. If amber quartz ever had a wish, it would be to exist as this dirigible.

They boarded and all she could hear was the hum of the engine as the aerial ship lifted and commenced its flight.

“Put her down gently,” she heard a woman say. “Do not injure her.” Cassandra hid a smirk. She felt rather than saw the sullenness of her abductors as one limped away and the other held his arm, after having been dismissed.

“Oh, do not play coy with me, young lady,” the voice said. “I know you are awake and aware of your surroundings.”

Cassandra felt soft cushions underneath her, and a pillow behind her head. “I’m not _so_ aware,” she said opening her eyes and slowly sitting up. She had a bit of trouble adjusting because of the metal wrapped around her legs. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim lighting, she recognized the constraint as the railing that had been plucked so easily from the hospital wall. The stronger of the two abductors must have wrapped it around her. She attempted to free herself, but her legs were not strong enough to break the stronghold. She may be able to cause dents and shatter bone, but the twisted metal that locked her legs together played against those strengths. _Physics, damn you_ , she swore in her head. She heard a snicker and looked up to meet the second creature from her childhood nightmares.

A woman with no face—only a white mask with slits for eyes, a small beak-like nose, and no mouth—stood in front of her. For the second time today, Cassandra awkwardly scrambled backwards, having been reduced to being able to use only her arms. She succeeded in pushing herself further against the cushions. She could not go anywhere with her legs bound. She was trapped.

“Do not panic,” the woman said. “I am having someone bring you clothing and something to eat. I can only imagine you need sustenance. In the meantime, welcome aboard.” The woman promptly turned her attentions to a drawer in a grandiose dark-grained desk that would have looked absolutely ostentatious in any other room but this one.

The surroundings were exquisite. Old and ancient, with secrets carved into the wood and sewn into the tapestries. _Hidden in plain sight_. How familiar a phrase.

Everywhere Cassandra looked, there was evidence of eras that should have evaporated into the past, but had dug their heels in and stayed, unabashedly and defiantly pumping their lifeblood, refusing to leave the present. Antiques and mahogany, burgundy-colored velvet, crystal chandeliers—not one, but four—and windows. Lots of windows. The sun was setting and already the grey-blue sky was morphing into a rich, dark indigo. Someone brought in a stack of white linens. This person also wore the same style mask.

“You may change,” said the stately woman, turning so that Cassandra could have some model of privacy, which Cassandra doubted she had as she scanned the room for any obvious cameras. She did not see any, but changed underneath the hospital gown anyway.

Her new outfit could only be described as white scrubs, or maybe an Asian-inspired lounger, or heaven forbid, a communal uniform reserved for the most lucrative pushers of long-stemmed roses upon unsuspecting pedestrians. But instead of pants, she had a wraparound skirt. She was given tan canvas shoes to wear. Slip-ons. She was even given a bra— _thank goodness_. Everything fit as if it had been specifically tailored for her. Cassandra found this unnerving.

“I want my locket and rings,” she stated, not waiting on polite formalities or introductions. She gathered this woman knew who Cassandra was already. “Now. Right now.”

“I am at liberty to tell you that they have been shipped to their rightful, intended recipient. Please be reassured that they are in loving hands. Something else has been sent as well. Just for fun.” Cassandra heard the smile in the woman’s voice.  

“What, pray tell?” _Yes, prey, tell me._

“Nothing with which you need to concern yourself,” she answered.

“Well, then, why did you mention it?”

“Because one thing we relish and delight in is mind games. Almost as much fun as administering physical torture. Now,” she paused. “Are you not glad you asked?”

“You had better not touch my husband and child—”

The woman hissed. “Or you will what? Kill us? Others have died trying, so I do wish you the best of luck.” She turned and seated herself at the desk where she had laid a manila file. She opened it and began reviewing its contents. “You seem well enough,” she said, looking up at Cassandra. “Tomorrow you begin your training. I suggest you rest tonight. You will need all your strength—not just in body, but in mind. Perhaps more so in mind, though I am sure you will be broken easily. _Physically_ we may have a tougher time, but . . .” Cassandra imagined her grinning at her from underneath that mask. “We believe in your abilities and are willing to take that chance.” She said this like someone reviewing an unpolished dancer for the ballet program at The Julliard.

“Well,” said Cassandra. “Since you are sure I will be destroyed one way or the other, how about answering a few questions for me.”

The woman laid her arms upon the desk, interlacing her fingers and leaned forward, giving Cassandra her full attention. “Of course, but I must correct your assumption that we wish to destroy you. That is not entirely true. Your will shall be broken, yes—that is true, in order to make you a better, stronger you. We value your skills and will put them to good use.”

“So you are only thinking of me.” When she did not answer, Cassandra asked another question. “What are my skills?”

“Some we know, some are yet to be determined.”

“Someone had come for me when I was a child with Haly’s Circus—before the other one came—the one that I burned. Was that you?”

“No.”

“Who?”

“A representative.”

“For whom?”

“Sebastian Clark, the grandmaster of The Court of Owls.”

“Why do I heal faster than others?”

“Not all others. There are more like you. I will not tell you the secret, except to say that someday—soon, The Court suspects—you and your kind will heal even quicker, become indestructible even. We look forward to that day.”

“Why?”

“Paradise will come to Gotham.”

“Whose?”

The woman’s eyes widened and she smiled to herself, proud that Cassandra had asked the question.

“We _did_ choose well with you, did we not? You _are_ a bright one. None of the others have possessed the forethought to ask that question.”

Cassandra repeated her question, “Whose? Whose paradise will come to Gotham? Yours? The Court’s? How can you be so sure you will not bring Hell instead?”

“Because Eden was perfect, and soon the garden will revive.”

“If you recall, the garden contained a serpent.”

“Owls eat serpents. Hungry?” A cart had been rolled in—again by someone donning the same type of mask—and the lid was lifted to reveal a seafood pasta in lobster crème with a side salad and iced tea—sweet.

“The chef took the liberty of creating something that would remind you of home.”

Cassandra’s eyes instantly filled with tears. Oswald adored seafood. It was his very favorite. She thought about how he playfully teased her for gorging on salads and had started serving sweet tea in his club at her suggestion. “You are cruel.”

The woman answered her instantly in a non-apologetic tone. “Yes, dear. We are.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Present day, Gotham . . ._

Oswald stood in front of his full-length mirror, but he did not see himself, did not see his bedroom reflected in the looking glass, but slowly and without awareness had slipped inside himself, his mind wandering off to the dark corners of insecurity and panic, self-doubt and sorrow.

Chewing on his lower lip was not helping.

New Year’s Eve would be horrid. Oswald just knew it.

He absentmindedly scratched his waist which had been squeezed into a too-tight cummerbund—no doubt the work of sloppy tailoring, and fought to adjust it back into place, his shirt and skin in that area moist from his sweat. This displeased him. He sucked in his gut and buttoned his vest. The matching jacket lay on the bed.

Another chance to welcome in a fresh new year with all its empty promises and teeming misery. He did not notice it when he started singing “Auld Lang Syne” under his breath.

“ _We two have run about the slopes,_  
and picked the daisies fine;  
But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,  
since auld lang syne.”

He sighed heavily and took out his frustration on his bow-tie, unraveling it and tying it back for the fifth time, but who’s counting? Who indeed.

 _Auld lang syne_ , he mused. _Days gone by_.

 _Why does she not come to me_? It was at that question that his image started to visualize before him. He took in the sight of a man who still looked youthful, but had accumulated more frown lines in between his brows, and the wrinkles around his lips gave testimony to a mouth that had spent most, if not all, of its life turned downward. There were very few laugh lines around his eyes.

 _Why would she come to me—look at me—a true image of his my nickname. Penguin_. Fuller face, grayer hair—which he kept covered in black hair dye. An unruly tuft on top that he always had to tame with gel. Tired eyes, dark circles underneath them from too many sleepless nights. A slight waddle, the direct result of his weight. What had been merely an uneven gait caused by his damaged leg, had morphed into a dodder, his extra pounds making walking almost comical and causing him more pain.

He groaned _. I am a person I thought I had left behind. I never got away. Trapped. Never free._

A new thought formed in his mind. _Had she seen pictures of me in the newspapers or the TV, or maybe in one of the society magazines, and now no longer desires me_? _Is disgusted by me_? _Could that be the accursed reason she does not come_? He felt certain that must be it—the images had poisoned her mind, turned her against him like Maroni had stolen loyalty from his mother.

A burst of rage traveled from his chest outward.

_If so, I will kill her. All her musings of love and loyalty were empty! Were nothing! I believed her! Trusted her!_

He saw his lip quiver and concentrated on making it stop, which only increased its trembling. He let out one short sob and sat down on the bed, taking his head in his hands and gulping down a few deep breaths before looking up to meet his reflection. Chubby cheeks, usually pale, were now flushed with sporadic red blotches. He narrowed his eyes.

“Never are you to entertain that absurd notion again,” he told his image. _The only thing she has ever done is save my life. Foolishness. I am a fool. And, if a fool I must be, it is for love’s sake. For her._

Who could blame her if she was ashamed of him? He had let himself go. Had promised to be in his best form when he had her in his arms again, but over the years, he had eaten the fury and drank the angst.

 _Even I would not wish to return home to me. How could she_?

He chastised himself and got up to pick out his cuff links. _This is irrational. I am being irrational. Of course, she wants to come home to me. Indeed, it is treacherous villainy that keeps us separated, not her will. When I get to the bottom of this, those responsible will find themselves at the bottom of Gotham Harbor_.

He rooted around the cuff link box—imported leather and teak wood with his initials embroidered on top, a gift from Nygma—and his eyes stopped on the ones in the shape of owls—a gold, silver, and copper mix. He tightened his mouth. They had just shown up one day. He had been tempted to toss them, but Nygma had told him to keep them, for inspiration, in case he ever started to get despondent and needed encouragement to continue his mission of tracking down Cassandra. _These will add some fuel to the fire whenever you look at them_ , Nygma had said. And he had been right. On those particular days when the despair covered him like a water-sodden quilt and he felt like giving up, he would gather those cuff links in his hand and feel his vehemence and determination return.

Nygma had been instrumental in helping him uncover some of the mystery of the journals. Harold had been helpful as well, _eagerly_ helpful, which set Oswald on high alert. The people who had Cassandra must be very bad people indeed if Harold was so keen to see her reunited with Oswald.

Harold had shared information regarding Haly’s side business with The Court. Besides running a lucrative circus, Haly recruited and trained children who had promise—the disturbed, the lonely, the angry, the especially talented—and alerted The Court to his discoveries. Only Harold did not understand why he did it, why Haly would sacrifice these children. He had seen only kindness from the man.

Harold had not had a chance to stay with the circus long enough to discover that answer. After he had taken the blame for the fire that Cassandra had accidentally started, he was shipped off to a juvenile detention center. But, what little he knew, he enthusiastically shared with Oswald.

He had been shoveling elephant dung one early evening and had laid the tool down to take a break when Haly had entered the makeshift stable followed by a masked figure. For whatever illogical reasoning that went through his mind at that moment, Harold did not want to be discovered and remained squatted behind a canvas barrier, hoping he had not been noticed already. When they spoke, he knew he was in the clear. He only hoped that he did not sneeze from itch the stirred up hay dust was causing in his nostrils.

“Yes,” said the form. It seemed to Harold the person had a slight hiss and he could not make out if it was man or woman. “Sebastian will be pleased with her progress. A courier will come for her in a few weeks. She is at the age where her permanent molars have come in, so it is time for a dental visit from one of our specialists.”

Haly nodded. “Yes, when can that person be expected?”

“Before midnight.”

“What about her parents?”

“Better to do it when they are all asleep. Would not want a simple dental procedure to turn into a bloodbath—well, I, of course, would not mind— _welcome it even_ —but it would not be good for the integrity of the circus. Too many great assassins have come out of it.”

Harold sneezed and the room fell silent. _Oh, damn_ , he thought, as he heard hay start to shuffle. He employed the “drop and roll” method used to teach children how to react to being on fire, and rolled his way underneath the edge of the tent to the outside without being seen. He hid behind the crates stacked against the canvas wall. After a beat, the visitor spoke again, addressing Haly, “You have no need to worry yourself with the details. It will all be taken care of. She will have the implant before daylight breaks upon your _traveling tents of happiness_.”

Harold heard the sneer in the visitor’s voice and watched from behind the crates as the person left, maneuvering himself to not be seen. Haly escorted the figure around another tent and Harold followed, but could not hear anything they were saying, if they were speaking at all, and ran in-between the smattering of parked cars to watch the guest leave. The license plate on the grey Rolls Royce read NOCTIS.

He had relayed all that to Oswald who had repeated this information to Nygma without revealing its source. Through simple sleuthing, Oswald discovered that the car was registered to the Powers Hotel, but not under a specific name. Using this line of reasoning, he found that Orchard Hotel had a car registered to it as well with the word AETERNUM on its license plate. _Latin words_. Place the two together and one gets “eternal night”.

 _But, what exactly does that_ mean? Oswald wondered. _Eternal night_. He and Nygma had brainstormed. _Blackness forever_? _Taking down the electrical grid_? (Nygma seemed to really like that idea.) _Plunge Gotham into complete darkness_? _Literally_? _Figuratively_? _Owls are night birds, night hunters_. _A city under siege from predatory fowl_? _And, what, pray tell, did that have to do with Cassandra_?

They had been in his office, sitting in silence, lost in their own thoughts when, Oswald had let out a guttural howl and threw the journal against the wall where it laid at an angle.

Ed froze. “May I get you something, Oswald?” Oswald shook his head no and stared at the journal as if it had personally offended him. He tilted his head and frowned.

“Ed, what is that?” he said, not taking his eyes from the book. Ed turned his head to look and his face lit up. “My, my. I never thought I would see one of those in my lifetime—outside of a museum or library that dealt with literary antiquities, that is.”

“So you see it too. I am not imagining things?”

Ed shook his head and got up. “You are not, sir.”

“Cassandra’s mother was a genius,” said Oswald as Ed brought him the journal and fanned out the edges—the same way it had been on the floor. It formed a picture on the side of the book.

“This is remarkable!” he continued, wishing that he had had the opportunity to meet her. “She employed a fore-edge painting technique to hide more secrets.” He studied the image. “A maze?”

Ed nodded. “That’s what it looks like—with a fountain. Try the top and bottom of the book.” They adjusted the diary and two separate paintings were revealed, each on either side of the book. Starting at one end and fanning the pages as they went, a panoramic picture emerged, morphing into three different scenes: the first was a painting of a golden mask, the second was the maze, and the last was a glacier.

Ed leaned in and adjusted his glasses. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the last tiny painting. “I do not believe that’s a glacier.” Oswald frowned and looked at it again.

“Well, then, what is it?” he asked.

Ed rattled off one of his cryptic riddles.

“Sometimes I just wish you would tell me the answer instead of trying to make me guess.”

“I have seen this before . . . in schematics, a blueprint—well, one. I think it’s been destroyed. It is quite a ways off from being completed. It’s a pity—the man who created it was once a well-respected tech researcher and securities analyst, but fell into the depths of madness,” Ed laughed nervously. “The answer to my riddle is a fortress. _He_ referred to _this_ structure as _the_ fortress.”

“And, who is _he_ , might I inquire?”

“His name is Eric Washington. No relationship to George,” he smiled, pleased with his joke.

“Eric Washington? You mean the former CEO to Securitus, Eric Washington?” Oswald sighed and leaned back running one of his hands through his hair. “He is dead, Ed. How does this help us?”

“He has a daughter. In his will he stated that his holdings would go to her. There has been some back and forth about that in probate since she is still quite young—it’s turned into a power struggle between her lawyers and those with vested interest in his company; it may not have been transferred to her yet as she is still a minor. But,” pointed back to the painting. “It has not stopped progress on this project.”

“You mean it is still being built? Right now? Even as we speak?” Ed nodded. “And, how, pray tell, do you know all this?” Oswald asked him.

“One learns things as a coroner. We have access to funeral homes, hospitals, the police department . . . Sometimes when a curious death occurs, I take an interest and may make an appearance at the dearly departed one’s viewing or wake or whatever way the left behind choose to send them to their next destination. Hover near a grieving widow at the GCPD. Shadow the bereaved in the morgue. All these venues are wonderful places to eavesdrop.” He grinned like an imp and rocked back and forth on his feet.

Oswald nodded and chuckled, biting on his lower lip. “I am duly impressed, Ed. Truly.” Ed had beamed like a kindergartner who had just been given a gold star to his forehead.

Looking back, Oswald reflected that this information had helped move closer to discovering who ran the mysterious Court of Owls and how he may be able to hit them were it hurt—their wallets—for without the money, they had no hope for power. If the hotels or any one of their businesses suffered financially, it would put a kink in whatever nefarious plans they had. Oswald had found out that these companies were interrelated, keeping the money in the family, so to speak, while making money off the unsuspecting. Plus, it would get him invited to a sit down with the key players. He really wanted to meet them. Face to face. On their turf. He had his reasons.

He decided to wear the owl cuff links, thought better of it, paranoid that they might contain a tracking device and returned them to their designated square within the case, where they had lived from the first day he had received them. He chose the oval pair instead, the silver ones with a tiny rhinestone and his initials engraved. They would do for tonight.

Oswald slipped on his jacket and headed towards the aviary at the zoo where this wretched party was being held. Several women had vied for a date, eager for whatever gifts he might bestow upon them, but he just could not do it this year. Aside from maybe getting lucky tonight—although even that prospect did not thrill him—he was not in the mood for anyone’s company. He did not even know why he was going to the stupid party.

Yes, he did. To stare forlornly at the tile in the aviary that Cassandra and he had painted on their honeymoon. As he stood, mournfully brushing his fingers over the smooth tile, he was accosted by the trampish hostess who had been stalking him all night—her breath smelling of caviar and beer, washed back with a shot of Dom Perignon. Of course, her shot glasses were flutes full of champagne, including one she had brought for him, but drank herself in one quick gulp. _Huh_. Must have slipped her mind she had just slurped down her own.

The party was awful. Just as he had suspected it would be, and now he was being pawed by a course drunk. She had the gall to grab him and plant a kiss on his mouth after the countdown. Her lips felt waxy due to the overabundance of Red Passion Puss smeared across them (and her teeth)—she had told him the name earlier followed by a wink and the show of her pink tongue as it glided over her her lips. 

_Someone else just trying to get a leg up . . . literally_. He pushed her away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while he fled to the men’s restroom. He snorted without merriment when he saw himself in the mirror above the sinks. The lipstick was smeared halfway across his face. _Wonderful. I look like those loons down at the Celestial Lounge._ That’s when someone walked in, and before he saw who had entered, he heard the distinguishable voice of Jeri, the owner of said lounge.

“That’s a good look for you,” she chirped. Grabbing his face and squeezing it between her fingers. He shoved her hands away.

“Stop it.”

“You love it when I do that.”

“I hate it when you do that.”

“No, you don’t. You love it.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” she teased, hopping up on the counter. “Otherwise you wouldn’t let me get away with it all the time.” She tried to capture his face again, but he slapped at her fingers.

“Jeri, I’m warning you.” She just laughed and kicked her legs back and forth underneath the counter. Oswald regarded her while wiping the lipstick off his face. She actually looked remarkably decent for this event, not that he did not enjoy her regular style. He did. A lot. In fact, he preferred it. It is just tonight, she actually could pass for elite royalty. “What are you doing here?”

“You mean in the men’s room?” She jumped down and opened the door. There was a line outside the women’s restroom. She shrugged. “I got to pee.”

“But you’re not ‘peeing’,” he said gesturing to the stalls. _Really, does one have use such vulgarities_? Jeri wrinkled her face at him.

“Oh, my _gosh_. Some people are so nitpicky!” She locked herself in a stall and Oswald could hear various unzipping and material being pulled and rearranged along with whispered swear words, some that were new to him. Oswald went to the men’s door and locked it.

“What was that click?” Jeri called out from the stall.

“I locked the door. There’s a lady in here. Cannot have strange fellows entering the domain.”

“ _You’re_ a strange fellow.”

“I don’t count,” he said. “And, you didn’t answer my question: What are you doing here?” Someone knocked on the entrance door. “One moment!” Oswald called out. More insistent thumping followed and Oswald swung the door open, holding a knife against the neck of the person on the other side. “If you value your life, you will give me _five minutes_ ,” he hissed. The man nodded.

“I apologize, Mr. Penguin—I mean, Mr. Cobblepot. I’ll just . . .” he pointed back over his shoulder and walked away, not finishing his sentence.

Oswald closed and relocked the door. “Better hurry, Jeri. The free champagne is running its course.” He heard her relieve herself and rolled his eyes. He could never figure out how he ended up in some circumstances.

“Oh, I got an invite because of my donation,” she said. Oswald eyebrows shot up.

“Your donation?” She was starting to wiggle back into whatever corset and hose she had made herself prisoner of and flushed the toilet.

“It’s not as nasty in here as I thought it would be,” she said as she reviewed herself in the mirror, turning this way and that to make sure she was all tucked in. She met his eyes and slumped dramatically. “Oh, come on Mr. High-and-Mighty. Surely you don’t think you the only one with money in this town, do you? My club pulls in a pretty penny too, you know.”

“My apologies,” said Oswald. “I only meant that I had never seen you at such events before tonight.” She did not wash her hands and she noticed his grimace. It delighted her and she laughed.

“Hey, Mr. O., we are among the Gotham select. It’s dirtier out there than in here.” He tilted his chin down and looked up at her like a puppy. “Oh, all right!” She turned and washed her hands, holding them up for him to see when she was finished.

“Happy?”

“Immensely,” he grinned.

“Yeah, so, why haven’t I attended these types of events before?” She shrugged and then said softly. “I shouldn’t have to tell you.” Oswald understood what she meant. She was a misfit. An outsider, just trying to fit in and rebelling when she could not. She became bubbly again. “Well, these parties are a hoot, kind of fun. Not as rotten as I thought they would be. Hey, did you see the size of that chocolate fountain? I could just bathe in that, and I just might before the night is over. Want to be my date for the rest of the evening? Keep hostess hooker away from you?”

He laughed. “You saw that did you?”

“Sure did. It’s why I followed you in here. I know a broken heart when I see one. I’m an expert one might say. How about I play your bodyguard? Well, that is until my dreamboat comes along. After that, you’re on your own.”

Oswald snickered and offered her his arm. “I would be delighted and ever grateful.” She slipped her arm through his and adjusted the train on her skirt behind her.

“So you owe me a favor?” she said, exuding childlike glee.

“Don’t push it,” he answered as they exited the room.

“A girl’s got to try.”

Oswald chuckled. At least for the next hour, the company would be fun.


	10. Chapter 10

_Ten years ago_ . . .

Cassandra gazed down from the portal in her room and watched Gotham City slowly float below her. The window was bolted and the glass was unbreakable. She had already tried. Even with her feet. She had been in this room for nearly a week now. They had said her training would start five days ago, but all they had done was feed her, hydrate her, and allow her to rest.

She stayed fuzzy headed almost consistently and was wondering if they had drugged her. Her bed beckoned—the fluffy pillows, the warm blankets. She wished Oswald was in them. Well, not here with her in this brass prison—but in some other bed. Any bed, holding her, nibbling on her, claiming her.

These people had taken all of her things—her phone, her locket with Oswald’s letter, even her wedding band and engagement ring. All she had was this cotton outfit, one pair of canvas shoes, and a drawer full of cotton underwear.

The hum of the motor lulled her into a sleepy daze and she sat back down on the bed, closing her eyes. I will have to stop eating the food and drinking whatever it is they are giving me. Her stomach growled, but she was determined not to eat the lunch that had just been delivered.

She heard a click and the door opened. It was too soon for them to return for the cart and she was surprised when it was not staff, but the stately woman Cassandra had not seen since her welcoming party aboard the S.S. Ineedtogetthehelloutofhere.

“Do you know why you are with us, Cassandra?”

“You have been very hospitable,” she sneered. “But you have yet to tell me your name. You know mine. My husband’s. My child’s.” She thought she heard the woman chuckle and knew she was grinning behind that white mask.

“You may call me Ms. Powers, dear.”

“Powers? You mean as in the Powers Hotel?”

“That would be the one. You have not touched your lobster. Is it not to your liking?”

“Just not hungry right now.”

“You know it is important to eat. Must keep up your strength.”

“I’m touched by your concern.”

Cassandra knew her history already. Part of the journal had not been in code. She knew she had to play along to keep the existence of her mother’s journal secret. The lobster smelled so good, dammit, and her stomach growled again. She shifted in the sheets in an attempt to muffle the noise.

“Here, dear, let me help you.” Ms. Powers picked up the napkin and snapped it from its folded shape, this time a pig’s face, and tucked it under Cassandra’s chin. Cassandra was instantly put on guard. The woman was invading her personal space. She eyed the special lobster fork, silver with two prongs, and was about to grab it when the woman placed her hand on Cassandra’s.

“You do not want to lose those pretty eyes of yours do you? Skewered on the tip of a fork like someone’s dessert?” She picked up the fork and held it in front of Cassandra’s face. “Leaving behind two gaping holes with little blood tears streaming out of them? Living in the dark? So unfortunate for one who likes to live in the light.”

Cassandra was tense, but made no move. Ms. Powers did not shut up. She should have. “Makes me wonder why you chose to cavort with such a child of darkness. Your doomed Mr. Cobblepot.” Cassandra head-butted her and cracked the mask. When she ran towards the door, the woman placed a viselike grip on Cassandra’s upper arm.

She was stronger than she looked, and Cassandra turned to kick her, but the woman had stuck a needle in her arm and pressed down on the plunger.

“You’ve been drugging me,” said Cassandra as she started to fall to the floor. “Why?”

“We cannot have you kicking things and breaking them, dearie,” Ms. Powers responded, rather sternly. Cassandra did not like the way she said ‘dearie’.

“No, I mean . . . _why_?”

“We demand payment of all our debts, sooner or later, one way or another.” Ms. Powers’ image wavered and then melted into wax. Cassandra grinned. The bird woman was a swirling into a pretty mix of vibrant colors—like a rainbow that had just thrown up and was excited about it. Then all the colors went away.

When Cassandra awoke, she was shivering—the floor beneath her was chilly and bare. “Where am I?” She could have sworn she heard laughter. She did not hear the hypnotic hum of the dirigible’s motor, so she guessed she had disembarked at some point. But to where?

With effort, she lifted her head and saw a wall in front of her—white marble, shiny—with a single, doorless entrance. She glanced back over her shoulder and the movement sent a spasm of pain through her head. She grabbed it, lying back down on the cold surface, staying still until the headache passed. It did not take long.

Wobbly, she stood and noticed that someone had changed her out of the wraparound skirt and into a pair of calf-length pants. _This cannot be a good omen_.

“I will just see myself out!” she yelled into the void. Her voice echoed around her. She turned and tried the knob, but of course it was locked. She knew it would be and kicked at it in frustration, only managing to put a few dents in the iron door, which also happened to be at least three stories high, as was the ceiling and the wall of the room. She turned and stared down the gaping entrance into the next room as if it where high-noon and she was preparing to destroy it in a duel. If her only way out was through there, she knew she was going to have to take it.

Once she walked across the threshold, she realized this was not an exit. _I am trapped in a maze_. She looked to the left and then to the right. There was also a path in front of her. _I don’t know which way to go_.

She heard a noise behind her and her neck went hot. She recognized the sound as a sword being unsheathed, having heard it so many times while building weapons for Oswald. She slowly glanced back towards the iron door and saw a figure dressed just like the ones who had kidnapped her—exactly like the one she had burned all those years ago—brown cape, goggles—a deranged bird.

“Run,” it hissed. Cassandra wasted no time in obeying its command, sprinting to the left.

 _I will get back to you, Oswald. I will. You’ll see. We will have Boo. Your mom. (Eck.) Gabe. Fara_. She nodded. _We will._ This was her mantra and she repeated as she ran and fell and got lost in the maze.

She had no idea how long she had been in there, stopping every now and then to catch her breath, and checking to see how sturdy the walls were as she pummeled them with her feet. She seemed to have shaken the creature off her scent and was grateful for that, but was now extremely thirsty. She almost yelled out to whomever might be watching, if they had intended for her to shrink up to a raisin of herself, but then thought better of it. The creature may find her if she did. _Creature_ , she chuckled, trying to remind herself that they were only human. Highly-skilled killing machines with a ball of ex-humanity bouncing around in their little assassin chests were their hearts used to be.

Slowly it dawned on her . . . they were making her into one of them, and she knew who their target was. _Let the assassin find me_. “I won’t do it!” she screamed. “You will have to kill me!” She spun out, pushing herself off the wall, and took a stance in the middle of the hallway, holding her arm wide and throwing back her head. “Here I am. Come and get me! I will not slaughter my Oswald!” She waited, but no assassin appeared.

But she did hear a whisper.  She looked down to where she had busted part of the marble wall. Looking around, she applied her back to the wall and slid down to listen. She heard it again, but this time, she could make out the words.

“Missssss . . .” Cassandra was not sure how to respond. It could be a trick. She glanced back down the hall just in case the assassin came around the corner. “Misssss, _pleassse_ . . . can you hear me?” _What did she have to lose_?

“Yes,” said Cassandra. “I understand now. Perhaps this is how it should be.”

“You hear me?”

Cassandra looked back down the hall. “You are near! I sense it! Let’s end this!”

“Miss, nooo! They will send someone . . . whether it be you or another. You amuse them, but ssssomeone else will go—will kill him. You must survive. You must save him.”

“But why would you . . .”

“Because I am your greatest fan. Keep going to your right. Don’t sssstop turning right. It will lead you to water, but—.” She was not able to warn her about the hallucinogen in the fountain.

The assassin came around the corner, several feet away from Cassandra. “Ready to die?” he called to her.

“Oh, shit,” whispered Cassandra, scrambling to her feet and following the directions the voice had given her. She ran as fast as she could and heard the man laughed and yell, “ _What happened to wanting to die_?”

How long had she been running this time? When she saw the miraculous owl fountain spewing water into an elevated pond at its base, she stopped caring. The water was lukewarm, but she gulped down as much as she could, nearly emerging her whole face in the liquid. Normally, she hated water. Today, it was her favorite beverage.

She leaned back against the base of the fountain and closed her eyes, ignoring the spinning sensation that was creeping up on her. She opened her eyes and saw herself staring back at her. The shock sent her over the edge of the fountain’s retaining wall and into the water.

Her image laughed. “Where are you going? Swimming? _Now_? Do you really think that’s appropriate?” The doppelganger leaned in toward Cassandra, smiling. Cassandra could smell smoke on her. “He’s coming, you know. Coming to carve you up into little pieces, if you let him. Make you into Cassandra Tartar for the ravenous spectators.” The mirror image straightened up and her smile disappeared. “Don’t let him or you will be every bit as worthless as you already think you are.” She stared at Cassandra petrified in the fountain and sneered. “Maybe you _are_ worthless. Maybe you should just give up and drown yourself. Here, let me help.”

Cassandra screamed and started fighting her twin, who had thrown herself onto Cassandra. She found that her kicks were useless, her legs feeling like swamp mud, pliable and heavy. She choked on the water, swallowing it and inhaling some into her lungs. Her clothes seemed to tighten and wrap around her as she twisted in the water and soon she found she was fighting against the liquid only, her other self having vanished.

Cassandra broke through the surface and gasped for air, coughing and wheezing as she desperately struggled to take in oxygen, the sound reverberating off the walls. She clawed her way over the edge of the fountain’s pool and landed awkwardly on the floor, panting until she could breathe normally again.

She was really, really cold. _Please don’t let him find me. I need to rest_.

Above her, watching every move she made, was The Court. She could not hear the murmuring that was taking place from their thrones of sanctuary—Caesars declaring life or death upon a whim.

“That was too sssssoon. She healed too sssssoon. The illusion should have lassssted for at least a couple of hourssss. This was only a few minutesssss.”

“The electrum?”

“No, something else. Ssssomething else with the electrum.”

“We will have to break her mind completely and keep it under our control.”

“How?”

“Convince her she has a disease and needsss shots to keep it at bay.”

“Yes, good. She’ss sobering up. As if she had not ingested the water at all.”

“But the drug workss. It playsss upon her fears and her guilt. Keep it coursing through her veins and she belongsss to ussss.”

“She will not drink more.”

“She will. I have called off the assassin for a time. He waits patiently for my order. After a few hourssss, she will need to hydrate again. She will have no choice but to get it from the fountain.”

“This is such a lovely venue, although I do miss the coliseumsss.”

“One day, my dear. One day. We shall return to ruling the roost, as the peons like to say.”

There was laughter and the clicking of opera glasses as they adjusted them to better enjoy the rest of the show.

Cassandra had been walking in circles for hours. She had someway made her way back to the fountain without running into her executioner. The water looked inviting. She plopped down on the fountain’s edge and started crying. _I am useless. Useless and pathetic. Useless and pathetic and thirsty and I know I am going to drink this water and it will probably kill me and I will not be able to save Oswald or Boo or any of them, I should just die_. _Little whispering voice, you have led me to my death . . . and to my beloved’s._

She had to take a sip. Just a tiny one. Enough to get by.

“You should drink more.” Her assassin sat beside her, very nonchalant, his elbows resting on his knees. She jumped up. “Now where do you think you are going, young lady?” The man took off his mask and Cassandra’s legs buckled.

“Dad?”

“In the flesh. This water is fine. Take another sip. It’s a different fountain. Not the one from before.”

“How did you know—the one from before? I don’t understand . . .” she whimpered, reaching out to stroke his face. He pulled her into a fierce hug, and she relaxed in his arms.

“They have kept me captive here. Not just me, but your mother also. They took us the day of the fire. I know you are parched. Here watch me, I’ll drink with you.” He cupped his hands and drank it all down. Cassandra did the same. “See. Nothing. I am so pleased to see you again, my child.”

“I cannot believe it’s you.”

“We have waited so long to be reunited with you.”

“Mom is actually nearby? Here?”

“ _Christina_!” Her father called out, and from around the giant owl, emerged a woman in a mask. Cassandra recoiled. “It’s okay,” her father reassured her. We have to wear these ridiculous getups. Helps them forget we are not actually one of them.” The woman removed the mask and rushed to embrace her daughter as she stood.

Cassandra broke down. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

Christina touched Cassandra’s chin and peered into her eyes. “It is, but I am worried about you—you look feverish. You are flushed. Here, sit down and drink some more water.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do it. Please your mother. Settle her nerves.”

Cassandra relented. “Do you know the way out of here?” she asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Yes,” said her father. “But first, your mother and I have a question to ask you.”

Cassandra sat up straight and placed her hands together. How awesome was this? “Okay.”

“Why did you set us on fire?”

Cassandra’s body twitched. _Did I hear that right_?

“W-What?” she laughed nervously. She had heard wrong.

This time he put his nose against hers and yelled, “ _Why did you set us on fire_?” Cassandra leaped up. “ _Do you know how hard it is to get the smell out_?”

“Now, darling. You are scaring her,” interjected her mother. She turned to Cassandra. “But seriously, dear, answer the question.”

Cassandra was stunned and could not respond. This was one of her nightmares. _Wake up! Wake up! This is only a nightmare—from start to finish. I am on the couch at home and Oswald will nudge me awake at any moment now. Any moment._

Her mother was getting impatient. “Perhaps you did not hear me . . . _HOW IS ONE SUPPOSED TO GET THE STENCH OF BURNT SKIN OUT OF ONE’S FLESH_?”

Timidly she responded, “I-I-I don’t know . . .”

Her father looked at her mother. “I-I-I don’t know,” he mimicked. “Well, you are not a very clever one at all, are you? Stealing my plans and trying to recreate them for yourself. Wearing my devices without any idea how to use them. See what your arrogance cost us?” He pulled open his shirt to reveal a smoking and blackened chest. “ _It burnssssss_ . . .” he told her.

“ _You made us suffer_!” her mother hissed. “ _It hurtssss_! _It hurts us all_! _All of us_!” Dead circus patrons and staff filled the room, screaming and crying and clutching themselves. An arm fell off here, a leg burned to ashes there. Children sobbed, their tears etching a sooty design upon their faces. A lion roared past her, aflame. Smoke filled her nostrils and the water in the fountain boiled. She could hear the crackling of the wood bleachers as the flames engulfed them. The heat of the fire surrounded her.

Christina pointed at Cassandra. “IT’S ALL _YOUR_ FAULT!”

Her father nodded and shouted, “IT’S ALL _YOUR_ FAULT!” As if on cue, the entire group started shouting at her, telling her it was all her fault.

Cassandra clutched her head and fell to her knees. She knew they were right, it _was_ all her fault. She had been arrogant. Harold had tried to stop her, but she sprayed the ignited liquid anyway. He had gone to jail for her. She was selfish. Horrid. Unfeeling. Some sort of psychopath.

She screamed and someone tapped her on her shoulder. “Wake up!”

 _Oswald._ She looked up, breathing a sigh of relief. Yes, it was him. The fire and the smoke and the nightmare was gone. He had come for her. She attacked him, throwing her arms around his neck. She did not understand why he did not immediately embrace her, but melted into him when he slowly encircled her with his arms, as if he were confused but also delighted.

“You came for me,” she whispered. He did not answer immediately, allowing his hands to run up and down her back, sneaking ever closer to her derriere.

“Did you think I would not? But, this is truly unexpected.” He buried his face between her neck and her shoulders, taking her skin into his mouth.

She cried out and laughed, “We should probably get out of here.” She grabbed his hand and tried to lead him away from the fountain. He stood stoically as if seriously contemplating his next move. She stopped and looked back at him, giving his arm a gentle pull. “Come on! I have to save you. Let’s go!”

Oswald laughed. “ _You_? Have to save _me_? From what? Your charms?”

She frowned, confused. “What are you talking about? Come on! We have to get out of here, Oswald!”

His eyebrows shot up and he nodded his head before glancing at the fountain. “Ah, now I see.” Cassandra thought he looked a little disappointed. She approached him and held his face in one hand. He covered it with his and stared back at her. She saw his pupils dilate before he swooped in for a kiss.

A red flag went up in her head. Something about his eyes had not looked right. She contemplated this as he lowered her to the floor behind the giant marble statue of the owl.

She opened her eyes. His kiss was off, not normal. Not like his usual kisses. It lacked something. And now his weight seemed wrong . . . he was too light. Oswald looked light, but was actually heavy in weight. Wonderfully heavy. This wasn’t wonderfully heavy. _And why are we making out in such a dangerous place_? Then she felt something that definitely _was not_ Oswald’s pressing against her thigh. This felt like a pencil. Oswald was not a pencil by any means.

“What a minute . . .” she murmured. With a grunt, her partner raised his head from her mouth to look at her. He was not ugly, but he also was not Oswald. She gasped and he chuckled. “I must say,” he said. “This is the best. Assignment. Ever.”

“Get off me!”

“I don’t think so,” he said, diving into her neck again. They wrestled. She kicked, but again, the law of physics worked against her—she could not get enough traction to injure him, being pinned on her back to the floor. She kept slamming her feet into the base of the owl sculpture, chipping away at its foundation until it started to teeter. One more swift kick would unbalance it and send it toppling.

If only she could untangle herself from her attacker. _Or, maybe not_ , she thought, interlocking her ankles behind him and squeezing. _I may not be able to use physics to kick him, but I can use it to squeeze him to death._ At first he seemed to take this as encouragement, until he realized he could not breathe and it was painful. He stopped moving in order to collect his wits and recover from the ache around his ribs. It allowed her to twist out from underneath him, but he caught one of her ankles. She kicked at him, but missed his face. Cassandra kicked again and broke the bones in his fingers. She heard him swear as she scrambled to owl’s base and gave it one last swift kick.

Her assassin staggered to his feet, clutching his bloodied hand. She knew it would not take long for him to recover and hoped the statue hit him before he decided to _hit her_. It rocked back once and Cassandra feared it would collapse in the opposite direction.

It didn’t. She huddled at the base, pressing herself against the white marble as the giant owl plummeted to the floor, crushing her assailant and spilling water over the edges of the fountain, while exposing busted pipes. The impact shook the room and the dust from the shattered statue popped up around her. Water was shooting up from the damaged areas of the plumbing like a family of pissed-off geysers.

That’s when the assholes decided to turn out the lights.

Who did they think they were messing with? Had they forgotten she was a fire starter?

As her panic started to build, she felt around for two small pieces of marble and tore a bit of her cotton pants and pulled out a few strands of her hair. She removed her shoes and placed the hair and material in one of them. She hoped she had chosen two good pieces of rock to strike together, using the hard, smooth piece of one stone to strike against the softer piece where the shine had been chipped away, and wished for a spark. She got one.

Her canvas shoe caught fire long enough for her to hold it up and see the exit from the center of the maze. The fire got too close to her fingers and she threw it to the side where it landed in a puddle of water, igniting it.

 _Well, damn. Whatever they were giving me to drink is flammable_. She took her other shoe and held it to the flame. It caught fire and right as she released it into the fountain, someone yelled, “ _Don’t do that_!” The whole center of the room was caught in an inferno that started scorching the marble and she could hear panicked feet thudding their way out of what Cassandra guessed was a very high balcony.

Someone tugged at her hand. “Come on! This way!” She followed the small masked figure out the door to a portion of the hallway that looked like a plain, ordinary marble wall. The child pressed her hand gently against it and a section opened to reveal a hidden corridor. The child dragged her in and ordered her not to waste any time.

As they ran, Cassandra asked, “Are you the voice I heard?”

“Yes!” she answered. Cassandra stopped.

“You got me drugged. Why should I trust you?” The child pulled at her to keep moving.

“You ran away before I could tell you it was tainted and that the effects would pass and to not be afraid.”

A figure stepped out of the shadows and blocked their route. “How brave of you moppet. Go to your room. I will deal with you later.”

“But . . .”

“No buts. Go now. I shall not ask again.” The child hung her head and scuffled away, looking back once at Cassandra.

“Don’t hurt her. She’s a child.”

The figure slapped her across the face. “First, never tell me how to treat my own. Second, that you think I would hurt one of my own, especially a child, disgusts me. Third, you have made a mess that will take some time to clean up.”

Cassandra rubbed her jaw. “And fourth. I figure there is a fourth because you did not say lastly.”

He stepped towards her. “Lastly, I am beginning to think you are more trouble than you are worth. I should have just had Haly arrange an accident for you.” She was grabbed from behind as he held up a syringe. She slumped and protested, “Not again!”

The man regarded the crumpled female form referred to as Cassandra and sighed. Ms. Powers joined him at his side.

“So that went well,” he said.

“Actually, it did, Sebastian” she told him. “You wanted a top-notch assassin. I would say she came through with flying colors.”

He snorted and twisted his head, popping the kinks out of his neck. “What do we do now?” he asked, drumming his fingers against his hips.

“Now she begins her physical training.”

“But her mind keeps healing.”

“Not to worry. A chemist has created a cocktail for her that will keep her under our control. But there is a drawback.”

“That element that gives the extra _umph_ to the electrum? And what is this mystery with her leg strength?”

“We do not have an answer for any of that yet.”

He grunted. “Tell me the drawback.”

“A common side effect of one of the drugs in the cocktail is temporary blindness—that is—for as long as she uses the drug. If used for too long, the cataracts become permanent. But, there is always surgery to correct that should we ever deem it necessary. However, with her healing faster than the others . . .”

He interrupted her. “A blind assassin?”

“I know, ludicrous. We could just call it off, not have our entertainment and just send in someone to take him out or . . .”

“No, I think a blind assassin is just what we need. The others learn to fight in the light. She will be able to fight in the dark, not seeing a thing, her other senses heightened.”

Ms. Powers nodded. Her eyes sparkled. “I like that,” she said. “Shrewd.”

Sebastian turned to her. “And besides. Who would suspect that a blind woman was actually a trained killer?”

They laughed and followed behind as the other two owls dragged Cassandra away. 


	11. Chapter 11

_Present day Gotham . . ._

“Hey, Boss,” Gabe entered Oswald’s office at The Iceberg Lounge holding a flash drive. “I think there is something you ought to see.” He held up the device. “It concerns Cassandra. May I?”

Oswald nodded and pushed away from his desk, allowing room for Gabe to plug the flash drive into the USB port on the other side of the monitor. Oswald had upgraded his systems at Harold’s urging and this little beauty had the computer built right into the monitor. It certainly saved room and he no longer had to bend down to fiddle with the tower. These were not even on the market yet. They were still prototypes, but this one worked beautifully.

 _It certainly is nice to know people in the know_.

A security video came up of the aviary, the day before the New Year’s party. It was not luck that he used the same software as several of the businesses throughout Gotham. The picture loaded and numerous panels were displayed showing various areas of the interior and outside portions of the bird sanctuary.

“Click on the lower right panel,” Gabe said.

Oswald did so.

“Now run it back . . .” The images looked like a silent movie on crack. Oswald chuckled and thought of the black-and-white classics his mother was so fond of—the melodramatic acting, the stark make-up that made the actors look more like porcelain dolls rather than people, and the piano music that built into a frenzy as the players bounced and lurched on the screen.

“At what am I looking?” he asked. He was slumped back in his imported leather-upholstered chair, weary in both mind and body.

“Wait for it.” An image appeared onscreen. A woman with dark hair in a white dress and coat.

Oswald bolted upright _. Could it be_? He ran the video back again and—yes, he was sure of it— saw Cassandra standing in front of their painted tile in the aviary. He checked the stamp time and date, just to be sure. It was indeed the day before the party, December 30, 10 a.m., right when the park opens. The party planners and caterers had not arrived and would not show up until that evening—after 5 p.m., when the zoo closes—to decorate and set up the tables for the soiree the next evening.

“How did you get this? How did you _know_ to get this?” he demanded.

“Fara knows a guy.” Gabe did not say more.

“ _Where_ is Fara now?”

“With the guy, trying to delicately wheedle a few more details out of him. Fara has it on authority that this lady, _if it is Cassandra_ —.”   

Oswald interrupted him. “ _It is_. Do you not think I would know my own wife when I see her?” he said with venom, not looking him in the eyes.

“Of course, Boss. Sure you would. My apologizes. She— _Cassandra_ —has shown up five days in a row. Sits on the bench, and then leaves after about half an hour.”

Oswald looked toward the screen again and frowned. “She just sits? Does she talk to anyone?”

“No.”

“Does anyone attempt to talk to _her_?”

Gabe hesitated and Oswald shot him a warning glare. “Tell me.”

“Just a couple of guys now and then. It looks like either they lose interest or she shuts them down.”

Oswald grinned. He liked the idea of Cassandra telling her admirers to go take a flying leap.

“There’s more,” said Gabe, without waiting for Oswald to tell him to continue.

“There had better be . . .” Oswald remarked. Someone had better tell him where she was staying so he could go get her, whether she liked it or not.

“She . . .” Gabe almost used the term “watches”, but that was not correct. After viewing the video, it dawned on him that she did not watch _anything_. Her black glasses always remained in place, even indoors and, every now and then, she snapped together the pieces of a foldup cane, one she had hidden in her purse, securing each single steel cylinder until they transformed into one solitary staff, a sturdy one that helped her maneuver her way through the zoo. And anywhere else.

“ _She what_?” Oswald sighed impatiently.

“After she sits, she visits the penguin display at feeding time.”

Oswald frowned and whipped his head back around to watch her—to absorb into his eyes every move she made. He could not help it. He drank her in, imagined the faint scent of gardenia as she sat or stood or moved. When she brushed an unruly curl back from her cheek, he envisioned that it was he who was touching the strand and tucking it behind her ear. He laughed when she sneezed, the force knocking her glasses to the tip of her nose, wishing it was his skin underneath her fingers as she pushed the lenses back towards her eyes. He was aware of his blood boiling when a man approached her, leaning in too close, and when some teenage kids, once they realized she could not see, teased her behind her back. _Brats_.

He was glad she could not see the leers she received when she stood to walk, several of the men without effort turned their attentions from the shiny, sleek birds to Cassandra’s backside. _She probably senses the stares_ , he thought. He busted out laughing harder this time when she whacked one of the pigs with her cane and made an apologetic gesture afterwards—their wives or girlfriends hustling them away. Others would just stand and stare at her from a corner, glittering eyes appreciating the subtle swing of her hips as she left the room.

Soon it would be him. _Him_ , in front of her. Talking to her. Brushing his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, around her waist. Burying his nose in the crook of her neck. Feeling her heat. Oswald trembled, goosebumps trailing across his flesh.

He slammed his palm down on his desk. “Let us go get her!” he proclaimed as he grabbed his mohair coat—its color as grey as the sky of Gotham—and swung it around him as if he were claiming Zorro’s cape, his arms disappearing into the sleeves.

“Do you think that _wise_?” Gabe asked him. Over the years, he had become a confidant slash big brother slash father figure to Oswald and always felt free to speak his mind, even if Oswald did not want to hear what he had to say. Gabe hesitated. “There’s something . . . wrong with her.”

“ _I_ know _there is something wrong with her_!” Oswald heard his own words and caught himself, closing his eyes and waving his hands in the air. A grimace played upon his pale face. “There is _nothing wrong_ with her!” he corrected them both, spit flying from his mouth.

“Boss . . .” Gabe started. Oswald held up a finger. Gabe’s shoulders slumped. He tried a different tactic. “ _Oswald_ . . .”

Oswald glared at him. _Dammit, I hate it when he does that. Usually means I actually am going to listen to him and delay my own plans while I mull over whatever it is he is getting ready to tell me_.  He balled his hands into fists and keep them firmly by his side, staring up at Gabe from underneath heavy-lidded, very angry eyes. He felt like the child at a birthday party whose only balloon had been popped. “Go on,” he growled.

“There must be a reason she has not come home. Not for a week.”

“It has been only five days, not a whole week,” said Oswald. Gabe ignored him.

“Maybe she is afraid,” he continued with a shrug. “I don’t know why she would be—I really don’t. But don’t approach her like a bull, ready to throw her upon your back and carry her off.” He glanced back at the grainy footage, and Oswald silently appreciated Gabe’s allusion to Europa and Zeus. He followed his lieutenant’s gaze back to the monitors.

Cassandra had moved out of the building and now was sitting in the garden, right outside the aviary, a little ways down from the artic area where the penguins were housed. Gabe clicked the panel and the picture went full screen. Around her, the trees were bare. Oswald knew it was cold outside and hoped the cream-colored coat she wore had kept her warm. Gabe spoke again.

“Wherever she was, wherever they held her, they did something to her.” He looked back at Oswald. “She can’t see, you know.”

“I know that,” he said, his voice as heavy as cement.

“Why don’t you watch her for a while?” Gabe grinned like a boy keeping a secret. “Like you did before.” He saw his boss’s features melt, his eyes glazing over.

 _I could watch her_ , he thought. _Make sure she has what she needs. But I will not watch for long. I will bring her back here. It will not be as before, when I was timid. I will bring her back, and she will be mine again, and that is final._

Oswald nodded his head in agreement, and for the next few days watched her comings and goings. He tracked her to a nunnery, where she had been swept off the street by the sisters. He took notice of the subtle joke—how the women, all dressed in white and black, looked like penguins—a rookery of them, huddling together and protecting his snowbird. He was grateful at least for that.

Remembering Cassandra and his nights (and days) of hungry desperation—sweat, saliva, the musky wet mix of male and female, shredded clothing (usually his)—made Oswald smirk as he watched her enter the convent. _If only they knew_ , he thought. _Such a wild one you have living in your quarters_. It was a wonder she had not singed the walls with her very presence.

He would take her soon. There was just the game he and Ed had to play first involving the Orchard and Powers Hotels. It was going to be of Biblical proportions, and would definitely stay the enemy. At least for a while. He thought about the shipments that had just arrived to his office at Oswald’s and were being put into place right at this very moment. He only lamented that the parcels could not have arrived sooner—New Year’s Eve would have been the best time—but, still, this would do. This _annus_ _novus_ (somehow that term sounded most appropriate) _,_ this “new year” was not going to start out well for The Court and it would end even worse. He would make sure of it.

A light came on in the top window and Oswald watched Cassandra’s silhouette as he had been doing all week, and as he had done all those years ago, yearning to be up there in the inviting yellow glow with her—that ache causing his chest to hurt now as it did then.

She would appreciate the game, the plagues to come, the first torment for her tormentors would involve roaches. Giant hissing roaches to be exact. With wings. _Why is it the scariest things seem to fly_? _Bleck_. Thinking about it caused him to shiver.

He only wished he could be there to witness the infestation as the dark bugs with their tickling little gross legs scurried across the dinner plates and satin sheets of the Powers and Orchard Hotels. Thousands of them. He had just made a few bug breeders very rich. He wrinkled his nose. _What possesses somebody to go into that line of business_?

He stepped out from the shadows of the alley across the street from the nunnery and heard something crunch beneath his foot. _Gag_. He imagined white guts resembling vanilla yogurt sticking to his sole. Warily, he lifted his foot to glance underneath, his jaw firmly set and his mouth in an upside down smile. He was relieved. It was only a candy wrapper. No roach. No roach here. Only at the hotels. Another blight would follow soon.

 _Let my woman go_ , he bellowed in his head, imitating an epic actor in a blockbuster movie. Truth was, he already had her—in a way. He glanced up at the window while crossing the street, then turned in the direction of his old club.

Yes, he was the one that truly had her—not the nuns. Hell, he owned _them_. But The Court did not know that Oswald was aware of her location, that he knew she was all right. Another gift had arrived—they were still trying to torment him into believing they were harming her. They had sent him her bloodied clothing. He had broken down at first, when the package had first arrived—the scent and feel of the hardened blood triggering the stark memory of her being shot as that image slammed into his mind, then of her disappearance and Boo’s grandmother coming for her grandchild.

But he had recovered. He had to quickly, for her sake. For his.

He sighed. It was always satisfying to be one step ahead. Oh, all right, who was he kidding—a trillion zillion steps ahead. And when he opened the newspaper the next morning to see the headline: “Roaches Invade Luxury Hotels: Demand Turndown Service”, Oswald spilled tea all over his new suit from his laughing.

It was thrilling to read that the news crews could not shoot any of the story from inside the establishments because of the over-excitable bugs crawling on the cameras and lights and flying into the hair and clothing of the unfortunate reporters. Hundreds of room and restaurant reservations had already been cancelled, the paper reported.

 _Let me see now_ , Oswald mused. _How many plagues were there? Oh, yes, that is correct—ten. Perhaps I can cut it down to half, if only they would invite me over for dinner—then we could go straight to the last one_.

The next plague involved creatures with long tails and after turning rodents loose in the businesses, the food and drink companies that sold to the masses that graced the twin hotels started to feel the heat. Ed was ecstatic that Oswald had agreed to let him leave behind clues as to what the next scourge would be.

The cops, of course, were clueless and did not care. On their salaries, they would never be able to take the missus or the mistress or the husband or the stud to a place as fancy and overpriced as these two luxury hotels. Looks like throwing a few bad apples into the GCPD was not working out in The Court’s favor. Of course, their sources, if they truly had any on the police force, would end up paying the price for their apathy later.

Upcoming events and conventions that were set to take place in a few weeks were cancelled. Oswald and Ed popped open a bottle of champagne and toasted each other. Two days had passed.

“Tomorrow,” Oswald told Ed. “You can try out your theory about the electrical grid that runs to the hotels.” He had taken great pride in showing Ed his map on the ceiling. “Remember—only the kitchens and freezers, and any chilled storage, except for the owner’s suite. Leave that one alone.”

Ed’s theory should work. He had turned off all power to Oswald’s once. On purpose. Oswald had been livid, thrilled, and impressed.

Ed rubbed his hands together and licked his lips. “I remember.”

Rotting meat is a hell of thing to smell. And then, there is its imagery—when the gnats and flies and maggots appear and the dead meat just seems to move on its own.

Oswald knew that the only thing that would not ruin, besides the grains and any canned or jarred product, was the alcohol. The wine would be fine. He was counting on it. Ed had managed to cut off the electricity to all the areas where it was imperative that food was kept fresh and chilled or frozen. Oswald estimated the loss to be in the upper thousands. He knew how much food and drink cost. He knew they were taking a hit in the wallet. Even the new line of bed linens stopped flying off the shelves. _Where were these made_? _Do they have bedbugs or lice_? This was the accompanying story to the headline of inedible food the next day.

“So,” inquired Ed that morning, as the two of them sat in Oswald’s office at this old club eating brunch. “Flood?”

“Of course. I have some rowdy teenagers willing to do the job, for a few bucks, mind you.”

“Pulling the fire alarms? How old school.”

Oswald laughed and raised a brow. “Are you complaining?”

“Hardly. You don’t think The Court will hunt down those kids, do you?”

Oswald’s face hardened. “I will not allow The Court to ever find those kids.” He thought of Boo and fear seized him. He leaned back in his chair, his head pressed into the soft cushion. “I can have an army too. Even if I have to hide my soldiers.” He closed his eyes and smiled. “The alarms should be going off right about now.” At that moment, he could hear the fire trucks sounding their sirens.

An hour later, he received a phone call from Sebastian Clark asking him to join him and some colleagues for dinner the next evening.

“Just remember,” said Ed, after Oswald replaced the phone in its cradle. The cucumber sandwich was sticking to the roof of his mouth and he poked at it with a fork. “You are walking into his domain. He is inviting you into his parlor.”

“That is the point,” answered Oswald. “But you mean it in terms such as: the spider and the fly?” he asked his friend.

Ed nodded. “If you recall, it didn’t end well for the fly.”

“I am not the fly in this scenario,” Oswald said as he snorted. “I am the spider.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sebastian Clark was not pleased. Oswald Cobblepot, son of a drunkard, was resolute and cunning, a chess player not only determined to win, but unwavering in his plan to make his opponent bleed. He had stolen Oswald’s queen, and Sebastian knew the man was indeed unhinged and out for vengeance. Sebastian had discovered he was the one behind the pestilence his hotels were experiencing.

So he decided to do what any person in his situation would do—he had invited the dangerous maggot to dinner at The Orchard, a once impressive hotel until Cobblepot had gotten his clammy palms on it and reduced it to a nest for rodents. The rats and mice had taken over the hotel and the owls could do nothing about it. Did not seem rational.

 _Well_ , the old man laughed, _we will dispose of this critter tonight_. _Bargain with him_. _The young guttersnipe does not realize that we no longer hold his mate captive_. That particular catch in the cog also did not please him. Sebastian had never intended to let their guest go free. Not like this. _She had been trained, dammit_! _For a specific purpose, and now he did not know where she was_!

John Wycliffe. A charismatic upstart that had usurped his power within The Court—whipping up the disgruntled parliament.

 _This little nobody, a pawn, who believes he can surpass the king_? _I will rip his neck out_.

Sebastian had not gone into hiding all these years to come back and have his throne stolen out from under him. Once he found the mask, they would bend their knees to their true master. They all would have to bow down to him and accept him as their leader—the rightful heir. If not, he would turn on them and destroy them all. Eagerly.

He strolled through the halls of the hotel, down to the lobby, and through the handful of restaurants and gift shops they had onsite. Everything was ruined. Even the spa and gym. Nothing had been left untouched by the vengeful flipper of that flightless bird. Sebastian had a special new aversion to penguins and the tints of black and white. The non-colors. Too many hues in one pigment, cancelling them all out, and none at all in the other.

He made sure he had the wine sent up and ordered fresh meat to be prepared in his suite by the most sought-after chef. Vegetables and fruit had been bought from the local market, clean and edible—not covered with mouse droppings or cockroach drool. He requested the most popular dessert and the best wait staff money could buy. Dinner would be formal and it would be in his apartment. Health officials had wanted him to leave, even demanded it. He silenced their “request” quickly. It always helped to either have money or information. If one could not pay for one wanted, then bring out the big guns of questionable sexual practices or off-shore money, hidden from the IRS.

He gave the doorman final instructions and then returned to his apartment.

 _When will the dregs realize we know everything_? Then he thought of Cassandra and knocked a vase from its table. The delicate golden raku shattered. _Varmint_. _Where the hell is she_?

Even several of his board had the nerve to try to convince him to vacate. But he was having none of it. If all that was left was decay and the promise of impending death, he would make sure Cobblepot’s corpse kept them all company—the rats, maggots, and cockroaches. They were the little bird’s invention after all, were they not? Only then would Sebastian leave.

Renovate. Rebuild. Resurrect. But until then . . .

Striding through his dining room, which as big as or even bigger than the most lavish guest room on the property, he surveyed the workers as they scurried busily around the mahogany table and chairs.

 _Set the table with gold and silver utensils_ , he had told his hired staff, _and the best china_. _And silk napkins_. He would show that measly little nobody. Let him experience some real extravagance, some class—done properly, with old money. Sebastian curled his lip. “Not with nouveau money,” he spat. Tasteless rats—the newly rich. All of them.

And Sebastian could not wait to exterminate this one in particular.

Oswald showed up precisely at 6 p.m. dressed in a dark tuxedo and bow tie. He had his umbrella with him for balance and, on the off chance he needed it, to incapacitate his hosts. Not that they were going anywhere anyway.

The hotel loomed before him, a monster of a building, gilded and silvery, twinkling with little flecks that reflected in the street lights. _Like a thousand eyes winking at me_ , Oswald snickered. _Still so pretty on the outside, no one would have suspected its ugly bowels had it not been for my cleverness._ _You are welcome, Gotham_. The outside continued to sparkle. _The foul beast is teasing me_ , Oswald thought.

“Come out, come out, nasty golden owl,” he sang under his breath as he adjusted his gloves. _You took something from me. Not your best move. If only you had left us alone, you would not have to die tonight_. _I control the board, and you shall topple to me_. “Let the game begin,” he breathed, then he stopped himself and laughed because he had already started it.

A doorman greeted him and Oswald was welcomed by the overpowering odor of bleach and rot tinged with something sweet before he even stepped inside. The man led the way through the damp lobby, holding a perfumed handkerchief over his face and offering another one to Oswald. He declined. He did not trust that it was only perfume that the cloth had been doused with, choosing instead to hold his breath for as long as he could before breathing into his elbow, which he kept tucked around his nose. He caught a glimpse of himself in the gilt mirrors that lined the walls to the elevator and grinned. _Count Dracula, I presume. How fitting._ He could feel his fangs growing with each step he took.

Surrounding him were hundreds of mousetraps. They were not empty. Cockroaches littered the floor, unmoving and sprinkled with white powder. Decay and the vanilla that tried to cover it had merged to form a sickly bouquet.

Oswald’s stomach flip-flopped. It was obvious they had not heard of Febreze. Whatever brand of air freshener they had used had not done the trick. Thankfully, the odor was not as strong in the elevator, but Oswald knew on the other side of those glitzy doors, the rotted things remained—their aroma having seeped into the carpet and furnishings, and now clinging to the curtains and wallpaper. He had noticed trash bags nestled in the corners. _Full of rodent carcasses and dead bugs_ , he presumed.

He had done well and was mighty proud of himself. It was all he could do to not giggle like a madman wearing the latest in Arkham fashion.

“Glad to see you could make it.” Sebastian feigned being cordial as he held out his hand for Oswald to shake. The elevator doors had opened right into Sebastian’s suite and Oswald was pleased to see that other owls were present, unmasked, of course.

“Delighted to be invited,” returned Oswald with honest enthusiasm. His adrenaline always went turbo before a kill and he could feel his body hyped on it right now—tickling like the fizz of soda pop through his veins.

“I do not suppose I need to tell you why you are here?”

“Because I accepted your invitation,” remarked Oswald and everyone laughed politely. A woman walked into the room and announced that dinner was served. Another woman gestured for Oswald’s coat and hanged it with the others in the foyer. He held on to his umbrella.

They settled around the table and Oswald took count at how many were present—eight, including himself. Sebastian sat at the head of the table and insisted that Oswald take the seat across from him. The table’s leaves had obviously been removed to accommodate for such a small gathering. _So_ , ruminated Oswald, _each player at his place, as it should be_. Each one acknowledged Oswald’s presence and introduced themselves by first name only. The wait staff started bringing the dishes to the table.

“Smells scrumptious!” Oswald declared. “How _did_ you manage to keep the meat fresh?” he asked with a smirk. Sebastian wanted to slap that cheesy grin off his face, but opened his napkin instead and laid it in his lap.

“Ah, so we come right to the point. Oh, yes, I know it was you behind the . . . this . . .” he waved his hand in the air.

“Plague?” Oswald happily offered.

Sebastian regarded his dinner guest for a moment and then asked, “I suppose you think that makes you God.”

Oswald raised his brows and was about to retort when the first course was placed in front of him. “I know you enjoy seafood, Mr. Cobblepot, so here we have our first course appetizer crostini shrimp and mushrooms over a light tomato sauce, followed by an amuse bouche of asparagus mousse.”

“Enchanting, but I propose that we address the reason as to why I really am here.” He pushed his plate to one side and shrugged. “How else shall we all be able to fully and readily enjoy this lovingly and thoughtfully prepared meal?” The rest of those present crunched down on their crostini and wiped the spoons clean of the mousse while Sebastian and Oswald stared each other down as if it twas high noon and one of them there varmints weren’t making it out alive.

Sebastian placed his hands together, as if in prayer, and rested his lips on the top fingers and nodded. He thought he would flatter the man. “I see that I am up against someone who does not beat around the bush. I like that in a person. Makes someone my equal.”

Oswald scoffed. _Wait_ , thought Sebastian, _does this man think that it is actually_ I _who is below HIM_?

“Your flattery bores me,” Oswald said and added a yawn just to piss him off. He wanted to needle him, but not too much. When Sebastian’s face turned red, he knew he had hit a nerve.

“It may behoove you to remember, Mr. Cobblepot, that I have something you want.”

Oswald allowed his face to go stone, but softened his eyes. _At last_ , he inwardly sighed, _you have come out to play_.

“This is true, and I do not like anyone playing with my things.”

Sebastian chuckled. “The next course is a lobster bisque with a touch of brandy.” The server took away Oswald’s untouched plate and laid the soup bowl down in front of him. “Why, you have not touched your meal, Mr. Cobblepot.”

“You will forgive my rudeness, Mr. Clark. As I am sure you can well understand when something you cherish has been taken from you, it affects one’s appetite. I am afraid my nerves are a little on edge. I would just like to negotiate the return of . . .”

“Tut, tut, tut . . . finish your soup.” The slurps of the others crescendoed around him.

“I am remiss in that my stomach will not allow it.” He did not like the gleam in Sebastian’s eyes.

“I am a reasonable man, Mr. Cobblepot, and have seen and done things you could not imagine.”

  _Where is this going_? thought Oswald. “Oh, I have no doubt.”

“Do you know what you have cost me in these past three days? I don’t mean just monetarily.” He banged his fist hard upon the table and all the china and utensils bounced. The others stopped eating for just a beat before returning to their soups, satisfied that the situation would not escalate. Sebastian was stern as he chastised Oswald, as if he were a student that had got caught cheating.

“There is a name to uphold and it has been tarnished. There is power to keep and it has been jeopardized. Do you know how many people I have ruined? Have killed? Have had killed? And you dare to fuck with me?” The men and women around the table tittered and laughed lowly. They sounded like lunatics. “We are everywhere and we are the ones to build and destroy . . . to decide who lives and who dies . . .”

“I suppose you think that makes you gods.”

Sebastian curled his lip. “I do not think it, my dear boy, it is the truth of the matter. We hold the power to grant you back your precious cargo . . . But now, here is the next course. I hope you like it.” Sebastian was glowing and Oswald _did not like it_. He was staring the man down when a server removed his soup dish and with the help of another waiter, placed the next meal in front of him. Peking Duck. Oswald narrowed his eyes, and Sebastian raised his hands in the air in mock distress.

“Ah! Such a horrid mistake! I told them specifically—no birds!”

“Looks like you are not such a god after all.”

Sebastian bared his teeth and ordered the bird be passed down the table to him. As the cooked fowl made its journey, each member of The Court took hold of some unfortunate limb or clump of meat and ripped it from its body, the crack of its skeleton as the bones broke sending shivers up and down Oswald’s spine. They clutched the vegetables that rested around the bird and stuffed them into their mouths, the juices from the meat and garnishes rolling down their chins. Oswald grimaced. A gore-fest scene from George Romero’s _Night of the Living Dead_ briefly flashed across his mind.

“Don’t despair, Cobblepot—here comes _your_ special meal!” Oswald froze, halfway expecting them to serve him Cassandra or Boo, terrified in the thought that they had been discovered. A plate was placed in front of him, some sort of fish, but cut and arranged in the shape of a swan. Sebastian laughed. “Again with the bird theme. I do apologize.”

“Not to worry. I do eat owl on occasion,” Oswald snarled. Sebastian enjoyed the joke and laughed again.

“Not today,” he said. “Today you will eat pufferfish, in all its purity, with a fresh seaweed salad on the side. You know pufferfish, don’t you?”

Oswald nodded his head. “Indeed—if not prepared correctly, it can poison the person eating it. Deadlier than cyanide and without an antidote. But, of course, I trust you have a chef with the experience needed to create a dish like this.”

“Yes, yes, Mr. Cobblepot, this is not a hole-in-the-wall establishment,” said Sebastian. “Until a few days ago, we were even a five-star restaurant. Tonight’s chef has taken special consideration in preparing this delicacy for you, our dear guest.” Oswald popped up from his chair and threw his napkin upon the table.

“That is _splendid_ news, my friends, as I am in the sharing mood today!” he exclaimed. “I do thank you! Far be it from me, however, to withhold such a captivating dish from any of you, and . . . seeing as how you lot are _starving_ —apparently—I am going to graciously and self-sacrificially share my portion with the rest of you fine people! Birds do love fish, I am told! I mean—who doesn’t— _am I right_?”

As Oswald said this, he carried his plate around the table, removing portions of the fish and plopping it gleefully upon their plates, before plopping gleefully back down into his chair.

“Eat up!” he encouraged, gesturing towards them and then leaning back and crossing his arms. He nearly laughed aloud when he saw the owls look to Sebastian for guidance and he shook his head _no_ , none too subtly. The clatter of utensils upon china made Oswald snort.

An apple sorbet with an almond cookie for garnish was brought into the room and Sebastian stood. “I think before we eat our dessert, we shall have a toast.” He motioned to the staff for the wine. “I think you will like this wine, Mr. Cobblepot.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, it is a favorite of mine—a lovely Cabernet Sauvignon. I have it shipped from France—it is not sold in America. I do hope you will give it a try, seeing that you have not touched anything—hardly even your glass of water.”  

“Well, it is true,” he nodded. “I do appreciate a fine red wine. The smoother, the better. But we have yet to discuss . . .”

“Shush, shush, we will get to that. A drink first . . .” Everyone rose. “To our illustrious guest, Mr. Cobblepot. May he never outlive those he loves the most.”

“Hear! Hear!” shouted the people around him. Oswald smiled as they drank down the content in their glasses, all except for Sebastian who had been distracted by the vibration of his cellphone, and Oswald, who had vowed before entering the building not to eat or drink anything offered him.

Sebastian’s eyes flickered to Oswald and he nodded, before hanging up and placing the phone in his breast pocket. Oswald sighed.

“Sebastian, enough of this . . .” he began.

His host raised his glass, a wicked grin on his face. “And here is to the widow who found her coin . . .” Sebastian said and took a sip of his wine. The group rapped on the table with their forks and spoons, some of them had already partaken of the sorbet, but still finished off the crimson red liquid in their glasses.

Oswald knew right away that The Court had located Cassandra. Sebastian had found his treasure. “May I offer up a toast?”

“Of course,” said Sebastian, who felt very much like celebrating, as he bit into an almond cookie. It was not the dessert he had specifically asked for, but it was refreshing and tasty nonetheless. Oswald held the glass out in front of him, toward Sebastian.

“First, I want to thank our host, _my_ host, for this wonderful meal . . .”

Sebastian took another bite of cookie. “. . . that you did not partake of . . .” he muttered, crumbs flying from his mouth. Oswald continued.

“I also want to thank the wait staff. I know it must have been difficult arriving at the last minute and getting everything set up. So here is to them.” For the third time, the party raised their glasses and swallowed it all down, except for Sebastian, who frowned, and Oswald who glowed like a woman who just had won a beauty pageant.  

Sebastian popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth and washed it down with the wine. “They were indeed wonderful, but they had since yesterday, so . . .”

“Nooooooo . . . _your_ wait staff had since yesterday. _My_ wait staff had only had a few hours. But you would never know it, would you? So professional.” Sebastian looked like someone had torn his favorite baseball mitten apart. Oswald tilted his head and heaved, “Oh, all right . . . the chef, however, _was_ yours,” Oswald conceded. “I mean, you _specifically_ requested him, so how could my minions knock him out and tie him up and leave him in a van with the others? No, I could not take that chance—he had a pufferfish to prepare, while my employees allowed the wine to breathe.” One of the owls fell to her chair and placed her head on the table. “Not feeling well? Gee. I hope it was not anything you ate.” He looked to Sebastian. “Or drank.” Another owl fell to the floor.

“Huh,” said Oswald, rocking up on his good leg, using his umbrella for balance. “Appears they are dropping like . . . flies . . . around here.” He held up a finger as if he had just remembered something. “Oh, I _do_ beg forgiveness for changing the dessert at the last minute, but I needed the almond to cover the aftertaste of the poison, and the apple, well, that was just for my own amusement. You know—apple seeds—cyanide . . . kind of my own little joke between myself and, well,” he paused “Myself!”

The other owls slumped to either their chairs or the floor. Sebastian tried to call out for the staff, but he doubled over in pain instead. “Do not bother calling for them. I dismissed them all. Gave them firm instructions to leave after dessert was served. You see, I guess you have figured it out, they were working for me. I even informed the chef to leave right after he was finished. Of course, he thinks the orders came from you. How do you feel? You do not look well.” Sebastian slid into a chair and pointed at him.

“Oh, stop that,” Oswald said, fluffing away his silent threat with a wave of his hand. “And drop the masquerade, I know you do not have Cassandra anymore. That is why this was so much fun for me, especially since no one will even know I was here. What was left of your security surveillance was destroyed by itty, bitty mice. And by mice, I mean my loyal subjects. It is going to look like you murdered your cohorts and took your own life in the process, business destroyed, no hope for recovery.” Sebastian cleared his throat and tried to say something. “What is that? I cannot hear you.”

Sebastian gurgled, then choked out, “We watch. I still see you.”

Oswald’s face contorted. “Be grateful you still have your vision, even if the last thing you see is me walking out that door and, oh by the way, what was that thing you asked earlier? Oh, yes, I believe it was—and I quote _—you dare to fuck with me_?” He got in Sebastian’s face. “Well, Seb, you do not mind if I call you that, do you? Here is my answer, Seb. _YES_. _Yes, I do_. I do dare to fuck with you. In fact, you are the very first person I want to fuck with, to be blunt . . . and not in the fun way. At least not for you. For _me_?” Oswald shrugged his shoulders and titled his head. “For me, it was fun. But do not expect me to respect you in the morning.” He stood. “Hell, I do not respect you now.” Oswald limped away from him, but turned with one final thought before he left him to die. “For the record, I have had a lot better fucks than you.” Then he turned and walked out of the room whistling "The Itsy Bitsy Spider".

Sebastian felt around for the phone in his pocket and managed to get it before he fell to the floor. He touched a speed-dial number to the last number that had called him and managed to whisper three words into the phone before he passed out.

“Cobblepot. Cyanide. Help.”


	13. Chapter 13

Cassandra liked the silence. It gave her brain the stillness it needed to think and her spirit the time it craved to figure out what her next move should be. Should she leave Gotham? Why would she stay? _If I stay here, should I even try to contact this Cobblepot_?

Cassandra sighed and pulled her coat closer around her. It was chilly, but she liked being outdoors, and the zoo was not crowded during the winter. Crowds confused her, distorted her path. It was too easy to get turned around and lost, especially if the crowd was loud and she could not hear for landmarks over the jumbled squawking of people. Sometimes, if she focused only on the smells around her, ignoring the strangers as they invaded her space, she could pick up the scent of food or garbage or sewage or even burning steel or chemicals, and use these clues to help her regain her position. Right now all she heard was the breeze, the cry of distant animals, and the faint drone of vehicles from the streets a few blocks over. There was an aroma of hot chocolate and buttered popcorn in the air—such an unusual combination, but it made her hungry and long for warmth. So their union worked as it was supposed to, even if others thought the two should not go together. The breeze held the promise of ice, but it was playful, lifting her hair to tickle her lips. Cassandra chuckled as she tamed the savage locks, twisting her mane and tucking what she could under her collar.

This was pleasant. The cement bench was making her butt cold though.

She heard a leaf fall to the pavement, only to be dragged away by the delicate wind. The noise conjured an image of a claw scratching its long talon across concrete and Cassandra shuddered, her serenity shattered.

_If I stay, do I search him out_? _And what then_? _Warn him_? She placed her head in her hands. _Maybe I should just leave him alone_.

She felt like a wraith, not quite in any world, stuck in between. She knew she was supposed to find Cobblepot and she knew what her mission was—to kill him, but she had determined to not go through with it, although she did not understand what was stopping her. She had heard awful things about the man—murderer, arms dealer, price manipulator, thief, mob boss, drug smuggler, general all-around baddie. But something did not sit right, like a bottle cap twisted on at an awkward angle. Just means something was going to leak out. If she could concentrate hard enough, it would. She was sure of it. Then she would know what to do.

It would all be all right as long as he did not find her first. She would be like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, or in her case, keeping with her hobbies—a girl discovered playing with matches above dried grass. If this happened, she knew she would not be able to mutter anything intelligible.

_Why is it that I feel as if I am connected to him_? She clutched her chest, overcome with sorrow and something else—longing? Desire? A painful loneliness? A fierce determination to protect him? _Like a shadow needing both the light and the dark to exist. Am I more light or dark_? She was certain she was dark, having been forced to live with it since as long as she could remember. It had terrified her—the dark, but somehow she acclimated to the absence of light.

She had been told she had been blinded as a child, a result of a fire, but she was given no further details by her guardians who only fed her hints about her past every now and then—especially the gregarious female child. The little one could never stop talking. She made up stories—love stories—for Cassandra, and the tales had kept her going actually. Particularly when she was having a panic attack because of the dark. The little girl would pet her and tell her a fairytale. Then others would come and show her how to fight, to keep herself safe, they told her. _And, don’t forget your medicine_ , they reminded her.

Cassandra grew to enjoy the fighting and looked forward to the different training—martial arts, weaponry, gymnastics. The activities fed the rage that sat like black, liquid swamp water on the bottom of her heart. She could feel it in her mind too—her very soul became twisted with it. She imagined herself grabbing at the slick, dark thing and cramming it into a box with clasps.

_Don’t lock it away_ , they told her. But do not let it control you, you must learn to control it. She had laughed at them then and nicknamed her two teachers: Yoda and Mr. Miyagi—mentors from movies she remembered as child and movie clips suddenly flashed across her mind.

_Wait_ —she remembered. It was then they had increased her dosage.

In fact, she should not be remembering this now, and it confused her. Had she forgot to take her medicine today? Symptoms of withdrawal would include delusions and false memories—delirium, they called it. _Said my nightmares would come back_. Told her she even might go insane and start slaughtering everyone. This frightened her the most. Hurting innocent people was something she could not live with, not with a stable mind, at least.

She thought about those poor souls in Arkham and pulled a syringe from her purse and jammed it into her thigh, the liquid automatically emptying into her muscle. It always felt weird inserting the needle there, but they told her it would take effect quicker if she did. She had always done as they had told her.

The name Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot kept limping around in her head.

In this case, Cassandra was not going to do what her captors had mandated. It would be the one time she could remember that she ever had disobeyed their orders. Normally, she would be out for the blood and guts and all the gooey parts of a person with Cobblepot’s attributes, but again . . . this did not feel right. She had learned to trust her physical senses—that was true. Just because she was blind did not mean she could not see something. She did not need her sight to know that this was wrong. She trusted her instincts—although she could not ascertain why—and not a moment had passed during her captivity that Cassandra had not been on her guard.

She stood. She was going to leave Gotham, but first she would write the man a letter, explaining his peril. The least she could do was send him a warning. Then once her medicine started to run out, she would lock herself up in a room somewhere or hide out in the woods. _Let me take it out on the walls or the trees_ , she thought.

_Or maybe in the midst of the meltdown, I will take my own life. Maybe I will not even know it when I do._ That thought seemed to soothe her, but still she pushed away the premonition, hoping it would not end with her despairing—whether lucid or not.

But, Cassandra knew better. She knew she would die by no one’s hand but her own.


	14. Chapter 14

The woman in the center of the garden was his Cassandra. He was sure of it. She stood in front of a concrete bench facing a barren tree.  _Dogwood_ , he thought. _Maybe cherry blossom_. Why could he not remember, dammit! He was the one who had donated it, for goodness sake!

He felt his heart swell as he got closer. He was overjoyed. His Cassandra had been returned to him _at last_!

The plan he had formulated every single torturous day of his existence since she had been gone to relentlessly question her, berate her, fuss over her, fuss _at_ her for loving him, leaving him, not contacting him these past few days, flew out the window.

“Cassandra!” he cried, he was laughing and hurrying as fast as he could go across the wet grass, his specialty made Italian suede shoes sinking into the mud, and he did not give not one good damn about it. His Cassandra was there waiting on him and if he had to reach her muddy or buck naked, he would do it. “Cassandra!” he called again. She turned, but made no move to approach him and he frowned. _Why will she not come to me_? _Even with her cane to guide her_?

“Cassandra,” he breathed when he got to her, letting go of his umbrella and throwing his arms around her and drawing her to himself. That scent of gardenias that he had gotten accustomed to and was so looking forward to inhaling was no longer on her skin. She resisted and wrestled herself out of his arms.

“Get off me!” He had heard those words before, only they had not been directed at him, and for a brief moment, a flash of anger coursed through his veins, but only for a second and quickly dissipated. “Who are you?” she asked him.

Baffled, Oswald sputtered, he could literally feel the capillaries expanding in his nose and his eyes swelled up with tears. He was almost certain he had misheard her because of the pounding in his ears. He could practically see Gabe’s words “told you so” prancing across his brain.

He placed his hands on his chest.

“It’s me, Oswald. Your husband.” He shook his head, confused. “I—don’t you know who I _am_?”

“I’m sorry. No. I’m not married.” Then under her breath: “Who would want to marry _me_?”

“I would!” Oswald blurted out, stunned. “I _did_. Your name is Cassandra, and you are my wife.  You _are_ Cassandra? Are you not? Your name?” She nodded as he continued.  “You . . . you look like my wife. You sound like my wife. You even talk the way she talks. Maybe if we could remove these sunglasses.” He gestured towards her face which caused the shadow from his hand to fall across her cheek and she quickly reached up to keep the glasses in place. He wanted to see if her eyes looked the way they had in his haunting— _his dream_ , he quickly corrected himself.

“No!” she said adamantly, taking a small but shaky step backwards.

“I wasn’t going to . . .” he sputtered some more, caught in his lie and took a step towards her.

Cassandra shook herself and grinned. “Sorry, didn’t mean for that to come out so harshly. I’ve had these on since as long as I can remember and if I remove them, my ears might fall off.” Oswald laughed.

“Well, we must not allow _that_ to happen.” He was aching to touch her, to hold on tight and never let go. He had to formulate a plan to take her back with him. It was Cassandra, his beloved, even if she did not know it right now. He had won her before and he would do it again.

She reached for him, touching his chest and Oswald thought his heart might pop out and land in her hand. He wanted to push her sleeve up and inspect her arm. If only he could see her unique scar, he would know for sure it was her. _He did know_. He _did_ , but the bodies of the clones and the animated dead, some still shambling around and underneath Gotham, tampered with his mind.

Her smile was infectious and he found himself returning it, even if she could not see it. “Did you say your name is Oswald?” she asked him.

“That is correct, miss.” He so badly wanted to take her hand in his—to press it further against his chest or squeeze it really hard. But instead he stood perfectly still, afraid to move, lest she sprint away like a deer. A deer with a cane.  She opened her mouth to say something else, but in his excitement and nervousness, Oswald continued speaking.

“You’ve been coming here, to this same spot, for days. Not that I have been spying, I just  . . . you are . . . I like penguins. You have been watching the penguins, all the birds.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not _watching_. Listening. Enjoying.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. He could feel pieces of it standing straight up and was glad she could not see him. Not just because of that, but because of his weight gain too. He continued his ramble. She removed her hand from his chest and he wanted to cry.

“The aviary. It’s the place . . . it’s . . . you . . . um, I’m sorry. I must apologize for tripping over my words. I am usually quite the eloquent speaker.” He paused to gather his composure. “What, if I may ask, is your last name?” He held his breath.

“Of course you may ask, and I _may_ tell you. It’s  . . .” She stopped talking and frowned. Oswald saw she was truly perplexed. “Um . . . well, this is just silly. We all have last names. I’m sure  . . . mine is  . . . uh, well, let me sit down and think about this for a moment. How humiliating . . .” Reaching for the concrete bench behind her, she missed and Oswald had to catch her to keep her from falling onto the wet ground. He settled her on the bench.

“I won’t let you fall,” he whispered. He felt her body jerk and she turned her head in the direction of his voice.  He settled himself beside her.

“What did you say?” she asked softly.

“I won’t let you fall,” he repeated. Cassandra felt something ripple across the surface of her mind. Something familiar that wanted to come up for air. The wetness of his coat lapel as she reached to hang on to it triggered a sense of déjà vu as well. She knew it was a mistake for him to have found her first. All her training, down the drain.

He smelled good. All of a sudden, she wanted to lick him. _I’m useless_.

“What’s your last name?” he asked.

“It’s . . .” she laughed, embarrassed. “It appears I don’t have one.”

“But you do,” he said, earnestly. “I can give you one. If you want it.” He took both her hands in his. They sat there like that for moment. He knew he was pressing his luck, his plans for playing it cool melting into a huge tub of spluttering idiot. He was coming on too strong, but he could not stop the avalanche. It had already started.

Cassandra did not remove her hands. In fact, she let them relax in his. Oswald felt her muscles go soft, and it only encouraged him. But before he could say anything more, she spoke. “It is only a guess, but . . .” _But you seem so familiar_ , she wanted to say. “Are you Oswald Chesterfield Cobbepot?”

“Yes, that is right.” He watched her face, trying to decipher the different thoughts and emotions that played over it, each one a confusion for him—shock, fear, joy, sadness, and something else . . . something he could not place his finger on, although he would be happy to try.

Gabe stood down at the entrance to Arctic World and watched his boss and former boss just sit there, staring at each other—well, he knew Oswald was the only one staring. It would be good to have Cassandra back home. Oswald may actually fully reintegrate himself back into the human race, and he had been more than happy to track down the low-lives who had taken her from her family. Nobody messes with family . . . if you want to keep yours.

She was like a badass, take-no-prisoners Wendy from  . . . what was the name of that play? Oh, yeah _Peter Pan_. He looked around. Nobody ever better find out he liked old-timey musicals. He blamed Gertrud for that. He let out a sad chuckle and glanced back at the couple.

Oswald was stumped for words. He fought to think of something that would convince her that she needed to come home with him. The Court now knew where she was, and he was scared out of his mind that they might come to take her away again, or kill her for spite, or hurt her in any way. He tried not to think of the ways they may have already hurt her. He swallowed hard.

_Can she hear my heart beating_?

Having Harold around had given him some insight into the world of individuals with lack of hearing, lack of sight, lack of motion, and all the others . . . When one sense was gone or one ability hindered, the others expanded, grew stronger. _So maybe the rest of us are disabled too, we just do not realize it_.

What was it that he lacked, and what had he gained?

“Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot,” Cassandra repeated. She seemed nervous, like him, as if she could not think of anything else to say.

“Yes?” Oswald answered.

“Nothing. I was just saying the name. Trying it out upon my tongue.”

Oswald blanched. He was grateful she could not see him turn from shocked paler-than-usual pale to desire-filled crimson. She said his name again. “It’s a very regal name,” she sighed.

“Th-Thank you. You did have cause to mention that very same compliment to me once before . . .” He stopped when she tilted her head. _I wish I could see your eyes,_ he thought. “In a dream,” he whispered. “It was a lovely dream. Of you.”

She laughed lightly. “A dream?” she asked, removing her hands. Oswald desperately wanted to recapture them, but refrained. There was a pensive wistfulness in her voice when she spoke again. “ _Nobody_ dreams of me.”

“I do. All the time. Even when I am awake.” _She grinned at me again._ Oswald sat a little straighter. _Maybe I am making headway_. He would have spoken again, but she beat him to it.

“You _are_ a bold one, aren’t you?”

“Would it be a mark in my favor if I was?” He held his breath as she considered his question and Oswald could practically hear the gears churning within her head.

“Yes,” she said, assuredly, after a pause. “Yes. I think it would.” Oswald exhaled softly.

“Well, then, my boldness insists that you have dinner with me tonight. At my mansion. My chauffeur can pick you up.” _As soon as I get one_. “I will have the chef prepare something special.”

“Mansion. Chauffeur. Chef. What line of work are you _in_ , Mr. Cobblepot?

“I am just a businessman who knows how to invest wisely.”

“Stocks?”

“Whatever catches my fancy.”

She chuckled. “And apparently I’ve caught your fancy, then, is that it?” she teased.

He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I am the one who has been caught.” When she did not respond, he added, “You can bring a bodyguard, of course, if you so desire.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You can borrow one of mine.”

This time Cassandra threw back her head and laughed. Oswald smiled at the sound and bit his lower lip as he continued to beam at her.

“And a bodyguard to boot!” she exclaimed as she turned her face towards him. “As well as a refreshing sense of humor. Like iced tea in the summertime.”

_I am almost at the finish line_ , he thought. _Just a little bit further_. His heart was pounding so hard it was making him sick. She gasped when he grabbed one of her hands with both of his and took a knee beside her, his chest pressed up against her shin, his bad leg screaming for him to get up.

“Please say you will come.” He gritted his teeth from the sharp pinch in his knee and hip, his whole right side from ankle to lower back feeling like he just had been stung by a jellyfish.

“What’s wrong?” Cassandra asked and shifted position so that her whole body faced him. She covered his hands with her other one and Oswald felt her grip tighten. _She is concerned about me_!

“You have not said yes, yet,” he retorted, trying to joke. She tried to pull him up.

“Get up. You sound as if you are in pain.” _I am in pain_ , he thought. Though it was not necessarily because of his mangled leg. He refused to budge.

“I _am_ in pain, for your affirmative answer, and I shall not rise. Not until you say yes.” Oswald had insisted like this once before when he had proposed marriage to her. She had initially said yes after his awkward attempt at expressing his undying loyalty, but he had wanted to do propose properly—upon one knee—the old-fashioned, romantic way—to deserve that coveted answer. He had been overjoyed when she had repeated her yes, and he wanted to hear her say it again now. “ _Please say yes_.”

“Is this how you win your arguments? By sacrificing your comfort and laying a guilt trip upon your opponent?”

He was befuddled. “You are not my opponent,” he insisted, barely above a whisper. He rose and sat beside her, stifling a groan, his leg stiff. “I apologize that I made you feel that way. It was not my intent. I just wanted so badly . . .”

“Yes.”

Oswald waited a beat before he spoke. “Yes, you want me to finish my thought or yes, you will have dinner with me?”

“Both.”

It felt to Oswald as if a weight had just been lifted from his body. _A genie had granted his wish_! _Santa had answered his letter_! “I just wanted so badly to spend time with you.”

He brought her hands up to his mouth and applied a shadow of a kiss upon her knuckles, his lips barely cascading across her skin. Oswald felt her shiver and slowly he raised his eyes to look at her face, his gaze lingering upon her mouth, which was slightly parted, then wandering from her flushed cheeks to the glasses that hid her eyes.

“Perhaps you should come home with me _now_.” He knew as soon as he had said it, he was an idiot. She jerked her hands away and stood, Oswald scrambling to get to his feet.

“I should have known better,” she said. Oswald took note of her down-turned mouth and the tiny frown between her brows that he adored so much. He heard the disappointment in her voice.

“It’s not like that!” he cried. “Please! Cassandra!” She turned from him. “ _Please_! _I am begging you_! I only . . .”

She turned to face him again with a flourish. “You only _what_? Think I am your wife?” He saw her face change several times as she spoke the words.

“It-it’s not safe for you . . .” He was willing to try anything at this point.

“ _Now_ you’re _threatening_ me?” She advanced on him. He stood his ground. They were nearly nose to nose. He tried to breath lightly so that she may think he was further away, but he was not about to move.

She could feel how close they were—those senses where heightened—and it made her dizzy. Some assassin she was. Here was a man she was supposed to hate, be afraid of, and kill and all she wanted to do was melt against him. Whatever rational fibers she had in her brain stuck out their tongues and mooned her as they slithered away. Although she saw nothing in front of her, she knew in front of her stood everything, and she closed her eyes. It did not help her to think. _Stupid intuition_.

“No,” he whispered.

_What_? Cassandra thought. _No to what_?

She stuttered. “I-I forgot . . .”

“No, I am not threatening you,” he reminded her. He held up his hands as if to touch her hair or the side of her face, instead balling his hands into sad fists and hanging them down at his sides again. He had no idea that Cassandra had felt his movement and that, for her, it was if the air around her had cried out for him to caress it again.

“At least allow me to drive you home,” he said. She could only nod and, relieved, he reached for his umbrella, resisting the powerful urge to reach for her as well. Together they walked to the limo in silence, Oswald gesturing to Gabe to not say anything, all the while trying to figure out how to get her _HOME_ for good.

_I mean, what was I thinking_? _She claims to not know me—of course, she would not come home with me—a strange man. I am so stupid_! He looked at the woman walking beside him. _There has to be a way. I cannot let her out of my sight. Not even for a minute._

Then he had a thought. He whipped out his phone and sent a text. When he got the response, he felt a little bit guilty and started chewing on his lower lip.

_This will work_ , he reassured himself, nodding absentmindedly. Oswald glanced again at Cassandra as she slid into the backseat, then re-read the text he had just sent before replacing the phone in his breast pocket.

He leaned his head against the back of the seat at an angle so he could stare at Cassandra, all the while calculating what he had just done. It was for her own good.

It was not his proudest moment.


	15. Chapter 15

Years had passed since Oswald Cobblepot had decided to leave that rundown old farm that sat like an ignored dog a few miles outside of Gotham. He had trudged through the night to catch a bus back to the city, having missed the one that always stopped close to Cassandra’s house. He had not paid attention to the other bus that went by him on the other side of that lonely road as it sped away from Gotham and into the swampy, rural area that lay just outside its borders. On that bus was an elderly gentleman who knew where he was going and was steadfast in his purpose.

When the bus slowed down and made that familiar gasping noise, almost like a whale sneezing, Nicholas Sokol disembarked with the noted intent of finding lodging at a particular residence—the one from which Oswald had just made his heart-rendering escape. This new visitor had no mind of Oswald’s short presence at the homestead, but would have found the news interesting if he had known.

That was ten years ago.

Now the same said gentleman stared down at a burning convent from his perch in what had to be the smelliest hotel in Gotham, except for of course the Powers and Orchard hotels. At this moment, they were the rankest smelling places in Gotham, but he would bet money that this place was a close second.

Nicholas would joke with his granddaughters later, telling them that even the cockroaches picked up their crumbs and left _. Might be a good thing for The Court to do as well,_ he mused _. Back off. At least lay low._

 _Am I being paranoid?_ He was unsettled. Something did not seem right. _Did the little firebird lay flame to her temporary shelter_?

He sighed heavily. Sometimes Nicholas wished they just could blend back into the shadows for a while. Become a grim fairy tale. Convince the ignorance masses that they were only a legend. Remain a poem meant to scare misbehaving children.

A black vehicle pulled up, and he watched Oswald Cobblepot step out of it. Nicholas froze. The man was supposed to be dead, but instead he is across the street waving his arms around like a fanatical bird. Cassandra was with him. Nicholas did not know whether to be bat-shit scared or highly impressed. He settled on both. _Nobody_ escapes the claws of Sebastian Clark but, somehow, this pipsqueak did.

 _The youngster below is stirred up,_ he thought _. More than stirred up. Out for vengeance. This is getting out of hand. It is not supposed to be this hard to kill a penguin. This nunnery fire was no accident_ , and he guessed the purpose. Cobblepot knew where Cassandra had been before they did. Now the crippled man had her all to himself, before they deemed her ready. Still, it had been ten years. If the training of their latest protégé proved to be pissant and the memory-reducing drug did not work by now, would it ever?

Someone should have guessed _that_ at some point—that there were unexplained complications, judging by the electrum in her system that was working overtime. It was not like they did not know it from the start—from the moment that Dulchamer had her—that her healing capacities where stronger than normal. Well, _normal_ for a person like her. Someone should have realized that and made adjustments, found out why, in case there were other recruits running around with the same . . . _problem_. Yes, someone should have been on top of that.

Someone like Sebastian Clark.

But Sebastian was too busy being obsessed with this quest against Cobblepot and Cassandra’s ancestors. It was true—their families were enemies of The Court, and nothing is more fun than torturing and devouring ones enemies, but this had gone on long enough and was circumventing their original purpose.

The rumblings within the ranks were growing louder, fiercer—and not just where Sebastian’s special project was concerned. Many were displeased with the progress, or lack thereof, of reclaiming Gotham outright—the prelude to coming out of the dark worldwide. They wanted to make their existence known, tired of hiding in the shadows. It was their right after all—to reign over the lesser beings, these mortals.

Sebastian was taking too long.

The man looked in the mirror and rubbed his gray whiskers _. I wonder if I will live long enough to see total domination_. Probably not if Sebastian continues to move towards their goal like a snail on Benadryl. He even started to wonder if Sebastian was treasonous—if the lead owl believed the words his dearly departed father had written long ago and had formed into a book—now lost.

The idea of the young John Wycliffe leading The Court was growing sweeter by the moment. He was certainly ambitious enough.

Nicholas turned on the TV set and adjusted the rabbit ears _. Who was the genius that started calling them rabbit ears? They look more like the feelers of a bug_. _Not cute and fluffy (and tasty!) like a bunny, but skinny and creepy like an insect._

He moved them back and forth until the picture sharpened. He wanted to see what the news was saying about the fire. He could see the reporter and her cameraman below. It was that blond woman--Amanda Becker. She always got way too excited about disaster and mayhem. Made her eyes sparkle. He liked that quality in a woman.  Not to mention she was damn cute. He looked in the mirror again. Too bad he looked old enough to be her great-grandfather.

He had liked Cassandra too. She had been kind to him when he had shown up so late at night on her doorstep. That she was up at that hour surprised him. He had resolved to camp out on the porch until morning, but there she was, awake! What stumped him more was that the whole house was milling around, all bleary eyed and frazzle haired. The atmosphere was sullen.

A room had just been vacated and it was his if he wanted it, the man with the oxygen tank had told him. Then he seemed to go into cardiac arrest.

It had been a long and dreadful night, but after that, the time had been good, pleasant. Cheery even, except for that Jeb Green, who even Nicholas did not like. He wondered what had happened to him. Just disappeared one day, said the papers. Good riddance. No loss to the world.

Not that he should care about the world. Unless it concerned him. Or The Court.

 _Except_ . . . He drummed his fingers upon the windowsill. He had liked Cassandra, as one would have affection for a lamb that had been raised for slaughter. He had felt a twinge of guilt back then, knowing he was about to turn the spotlight upon her for The Court to see, especially after the death of her uncle.

But it had to be done. She would be nourishment for many generations of owls to come, and would help in vindicating those who had already passed. She would join others like herself in overtaking the city, the world—and, as an added bonus to her free training and upkeep—if any of the owls deemed it so—she would live as a pampered pet amongst them. If she behaved.

Besides, the Anders line owed them.

It would work out for all in the end. Well, _most_ all. Not the peasants. But that is to be expected. Why should it be any other way? The very thought was absurd.

The snooping he had done around the farmhouse, flipping through photo albums believed hidden. Questions had been asked of the tenants and those living in the township. The way the young woman manipulated various brass contraptions in the same manner of her father. Spying on her when she played with fire, thinking she was alone. She wore gardenias in her hair the way her mother had done.

The farmhouse was a beacon and The Court was a ship. Or in this case a blimp.

She had been all too willing to burn down the place after his suggestion. Of course, he was taking too much credit. Cassandra would have probably—and _had_ probably—thought about doing that on her own. She had just needed a little encouragement and he was happy to give it to her on his last night as a tenant at the farm. If only he could have framed her work and displayed it in the Musée du Louvre.

He watched the TV screen and shook his head. More firetrucks showed up _._

_It would have been better for her if she had just died in the blaze with her parents, or had accidentally gotten trapped in the flames of her beautiful piece of arson._

He remembered them—Cassandra’s parents. He had visited the circus not long before the tragedy occurred. To this day, Nicholas was convinced that someone had overheard him talking to Haly in the elephants’ quarters, but the two of them had not seen anyone.

The woman on the tellie was suddenly interrupted as the anchor cut in to inform his audience that another breaking story was coming out of Gotham. Sebastian Clark had gone missing as well as three prominent business leaders. Isabella Nikolaev was on the scene at the Orchard Hotel. Nicholas leaned forward to get a better look at her.

She had red hair, which was quite striking against her dark olive complexion and forest green suit. Spitting image of Rita Hayworth, but with a really dark tan. He was intrigued. She was gorgeous! If only she was not wearing a wedding band. Not that he had a chance anyway.

“Thank you, Skip. As you can see, I am standing outside the Orchard Hotel—a resort that has recently come under fire as being uninhabitable, as well as its sibling establishment the Powers Hotel. A search of the CEO’s penthouse at the top of what is the now _condemned_ Orchard Hotel indicated that there had been a dinner party for at least eight people, but no one was there when the police arrived at the apartment. When asked how they knew that something was amiss, the GCPD said an early morning anonymous tip had lead them to the scene. They are collecting evidence and retrieving the security tapes from the hotel . . . As. We. Speak. Right now they are treating it as a missing person case.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘missing persons’, Isabella?” asked the anchor. He liked to think he was in charge.

“Sorry, Skip, that’s right— _missing persons_.” Isabella made it look like she had messed up on purpose. Made it seem that it was so much more theatrical to emphasis _again_ that several people were simply gone. Poof. Vanished into thin air. Half of them unidentified.

Also, Skip was a jerk.

Nicholas laughed at the term “missing _persons_ ”. _Well, she’s half right_ , he thought. _But WE have evolved_.

“The police are not releasing the names of the other three until family members have been interviewed.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Skip, the names of the other four persons who are missing have not been discovered yet, and there are no recent missing _persons_ reports as of this moment. We will keep the citizens of Gotham City updated. This is Isabella Nikolaev coming to you live from the Orchard Hotel. Skip ( _you asshole_ ), back to you.”

 _Huh,_ thought the gentleman. _Missing, you say_? He walked back over to the window and peered down. Cassandra was being lead back to Cobblepot’s car and they were getting inside. Sebastian had planned a special meeting for the young man and, obviously, it did not go as planned. _Now our great leader is missing._

Jeb Green was missing.

After being sent to threaten Cobblepot ten years ago, Tawny had gone missing too. The last time he had seen _her_ was at a Christmas party at Mooney’s place. Then Fish had gone missing.

Twice.

He did not want to go missing.

Nicholas turned off the television and was about to exit the room when the phone rang. He traced his steps to the window and saw that Cobblepot’s vehicle was gone and hesitated about answering the phone.

 _What if it’s him_? _What if he has found me_? When it stopped ringing, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was getting too old for this. When his cellphone rang, he nearly came out of his skin.

“Nicholas, get back here _now_. I suppose you’ve seen the news.” The person on the other end of the line did not give him time to respond. “Sebastian is with us now and we are tending to him. Cobblepot tried to kill him with poison, but did not succeed. Luckily. Sebastian managed to call us just in time to save him.” There was a moment of silence. “Cobblepot did kill the others. They’re dead. We have their bodies.”

Nicholas felt his gut twist. He was kind of hoping Sebastian was dead. He also wondered how they were going to spin the disappearances of the three business leaders. That is, if they were to remain dead.

“Are you going to deliver the others to Strange?” There was a pause. Then a click.

Nicholas snapped his phone shut and bolted from the hotel. He thought now would be a good time to become a missing person after all.


	16. Chapter 16

**I want to thank everyone who has shown an interest in this story, but I am unable to continue at this time. I do not want to leave anyone hanging, so I have compiled a “CliffsNotes” version to summarize what happens to Cassandra and Oswald. I knew how the story would end and had the arc set after the first few episodes of Gotham. Obsession does that to a person. The last entry is something that was written quite a time ago, as were the intermittent descriptions. At some point, I hope to resume composing the story chapter by chapter, until then, the story is as follows:**

 

**Oswald takes Cassandra home and introduces her to Iggy when he comes running into the club one day. Oswald does as he promises and teaches Iggy to drive. Here is a portion of that event:**

Oswald looks back over his shoulder. “You did well,” he told Iggy. “You only hit . . .” He began to count. “Eleven of the twelve orange cones. An improvement!”

**Oswald fills the mansion with every variety of gardenia and Cassandra declares it her favorite flower. He makes sure to have some in his office at Oswald’s and The Iceberg Lounge.**

**Unbeknownst to Cassandra, Oswald confiscates a vial of her medicine—with a single insistent gesture, Mother Superior was too scared not to had one over to him while a portion of the nunnery burned. Don’t worry, Oswald made improvements on it later, it was the least he could do since he called Fara who in turn contacted Mother Superior and arranged to have the nun set the room on fire. She owed him for the problems they were having years before with a loan shark that was demanding payment from the sisters, in one way or another, for a sizable loan used to purchase a Victorian house across the street to house the homeless. Oswald had dealt with the shark and everyone affiliated with him. He and his cohorts are now on display as a diamond necklace at Spiffany’s Jewelry Store, Gotham’s version of Tiffany’s—yes, this is a real DC invention. Oswald threw in a playground at the convent for the kids to boot. He left his calling card and told Mother Superior he may need a favor one day. He cashed in with the fire at the nunnery.**

 

As Cassandra breathed in the scorched air and listened to Oswald lamenting the fact that the nunnery was burning to ashes and how it looked more hellish than heavenly in its robes of charcoal, flame, and smoke, she congratulated herself on always carrying extra vails of her medicine. There were three doses in her purse. She wondered if Mr. Cobblepot knew of any good, black-market doctors. One who knew how to keep his mouth shut and not pry into business he did not need to know about. She did not want any questions asked.

 “My medicine’s in there,” she said, pointing in the direction of heat. A rafter fell and amber sparks popped up around it. Oswald clammed up and went still.

“ _What_?” he said sharply. A note of confusion laced his voice.

“My medicine. I need my medicine. For my condition.” She spoke louder this time, thinking he had not heard her over the roar of the fire.

“ _What_ condition?” he asked her.

She sensed another presence near to her and could smell the nun’s perfume. Expensive. Like the chocolate she had a habit of hiding in her habit.

 _Humble pie, my ass_.

 _Mmmm, pie_.

“Dear.” She heard Mother Superior say. “I was only able to save a handful of your injections. I grabbed the briefcase, but it was not fully latched and they fell out and . . . I was able to grab these.” Cassandra could hear the plastic containers thumping against each other as the nun juggled them in her meaty hands.

Cassandra knew she was a hefty woman the first time she had encountered her. Bear hugs tend clarify a person’s frame. It was a welcomed hug nonetheless, and we all have our virtues and vices.

At present, Cassandra imagined the nun had just stepped out of the third circle of Dante’s Divine Inferno (where the gluttons suffer)—a brief reprieve to offer Cassandra her medicine as an offering to get out of hell and into purgatory. Goodness knows the wings would never hold her if she tried to fly.

She could feel Oswald bristle beside her.

“Mr. Cobblepot!” the nun continued. “Always delighted to see you! Even under these circumstances.” Cassandra felt the woman reach out to grasp Oswald’s hand before turning back to her to place the loose vials within her own. Cassandra thanked the nun and slid the injections into her pocketbook.

“A pleasure to see you again,” responded Oswald. “How are the children enjoying the playground?”

As the two made nice, Cassandra searched her mind, but also kept her ears tuned to their conversation. She was sure she had left the briefcase latched, not locked, but closed. Something had pricked the nun’s fancy, made her extra nosey, could it have been a text from . . .

“Mr. Cobblepot, the children could not be happier. I really don’t know how the convent could ever think to repay you . . .”

There was a sudden and strained silence, before Oswald said, “No need. It has always been a joy to help the underprivileged children of Gotham City—the orphans, street urchins. My only payment is that they enjoy it to its fullest. The thought of needing to repay me is ludicrous at best, insulting at worst.”

It sounded like a warning. Cassandra could hear he was saying this through gritted teeth.

She had needed—no, wanted—an excuse to go home with him. Something that would not make her look easy or stupid. And now she had one.

 _What did Oswald do—promise them a hefty donation_? _A truckload of rosaries_? _New bingo cards_?

Cassandra had been warned the man was sneaky. It gave her a rush to experience it for herself. This was done for her. For her benefit. For Cassandra. He wanted her that much. She asked herself why she was excited about that.

Oswald went on about her safety and that he would open his home to her, if she accepted, although he realized he was being pretentious and preposterous to hope she would accept such a forward invitation from a man she did not know. It was if someone pressed the ramble button on his mouth and he could not quit talking. She listened to the pseudo shock, but real concern, in his voice and motioned just a little toward him with her fingers, enough for him to respond to her gesture and take her hand.

Oswald stopped talking.

His hand was calloused on his fingertips and the outward side of his thumb—as if he played a piano the way Andersen’s Karen danced without ceasing, a prisoner to her red shoes, he a prisoner to his solitaire. Other than those jagged areas of toughened skin, his hand was smooth. And strong. He had a strong hand—a subtle marriage of gentle masculinity and graceful strength, as hard as granite and as soft as feathers. It reassured her and she never wanted to let go.

 

**Ed analyzes the medicine. He discovers it is a drug used for schizophrenic patients and not insulin as Cassandra had been led to believe, but also combined with another drug ketamine hydrochloride, usually referred to as Special K. He also tells Oswald there is something else in her blood that he is still testing, but the compound points to an ancient Egyptian mixture of elements believed to promote healing and prolong life. They called it electrum—the word seen scrawled in the journal, and it seems that Cassandra had a high mixture of it in her blood. It should actually make her lethargic and sick, so something must be interfering with it. He would have to study it and get back to Oswald. Upon discovering it—it was the well water on her farm, the swamp water having seeped through and permeated it, that caused longevity and healing. Nygma does not believe it is coming from plant growth and concludes it must be from a chemical leak originating from somewhere within the city. They later discover that there is a basin of chemicals underneath The Monarch Theatre that has been leaking into some water conduits leading outside of Gotham. Dr. Strange had been taking samples from the pit at the theater to use in his own experiments.**

 

“But that cannot be,” said Oswald. “Her uncle was sick—from working at Ace Chemicals, you remember the event, the screw-up at the factory, everyone affected died—yet he lived another twenty years . . .” Oswald’s voice trailed off as light came on in his head.

Ed hesitated and stared intently at Oswald. He loved dramatic pauses.

“That’s just it,” he breathed. “The man should have died twenty years earlier.”

Oswald blinked, not sure what was suddenly dawning on him. “So it did not heal him, but kept him alive longer because he was drinking it regularly? But Cassandra, she did not stay on the farm . . .”

“She arrived there at around ten years old?”

Oswald nodded his head. “Eight to be exact.”

“Yeah. Before puberty. It kind of mixed with her hormones during that time, I’m guessing, and became a part of her. A part of her and the electrum already there.”

 

**Oswald takes Cassandra’s medicine and replaces it with a placebo. Gradually her memory and eyesight return. She and Harold reunite. Jim Gordon does not pursue carjacking or kidnapping charges against Oswald, as follows:**

 

Gordon had not charged Oswald with any crime. He had witnessed the man’s devastation as he lay helpless in his hospital bed and decided to let it pass. The investigation was going in circles anyway. If he had been called to testify in this fake adoption case, he would have sounded like a fool. The memory of Oswald’s pained face and that desperate look in his eyes would always haunt Jim Gordon. Mainly, because he had been utterly useless in helping the man find his wife or retain what Cobblepot insisted was his boy. Even Bullock did not press the issue. How could he? He had enough blood on his own hands.

 

**Before her eyesight returns, Oswald arranges for a special show to be presented at the museum where blind patrons can “feel” the paintings through sculptures depicting the artwork and have a prerecorded description of the said work available at the touch of a button. It is a hit not just with her, but with the community. There is much fawning over Oswald by everyone, especially Cassandra. The patrons seem pointedly interested in the blurry photograph of a man in a black bat suit that someone has taken. It is one of the featured sculptures to touch.**

**Cassandra struggles with her feelings and thoughts during this time for her host. She experiences a growing disrupted arcadia rhythm and finds herself either in his office or the sitting room off his bedchamber to talk to him—that is, if he too is awake during her sleepless nights. On several occasions, she absentmindedly grabs for something around her neck only to find there’s nothing there. Oswald notices her doing that and asks her about it. Since the medicine is wearing off (unbeknownst to her), her mind is slipping back and forth between the present and the past and she tells him she thinks she is missing something and asks if he knows someone named Pablo. He laughs and says he does, but will not elaborate. This is how Oswald knows that the medicine is starting to leave her system and he is relieved.**

**She considers it odd she had never seen him, yet knows what he looks like. She begins to question if her captors had been feeding her brain lies the entire time she was with them. Only those who had sight before going blind would be able to dream as if they had experienced sight in the past.**

On those evenings when she did sleep, she dreamt of him without fail, seeing his visage and his form materialize perfectly before her—the caramel freckles scattered across a Devonshire crème face, the eyes that looked like the scent of wintergreen, and lips—the color of bubble gum. He would grin at her—the right side corner of his mouth turning upward, and the left side pointing down. His hair, unruly spikes of black licorice and a voice as thick and warm as melted milk chocolate. Sometimes she woke up hungry (in every sense of the word) whenever she dreamed about him.

Oswald Cobblepot was well-dressed candy.

 

**She is especially confused when the map on Oswald’s ceiling recognizes her voice and obeys her commands. Before the drugs start to wear off, she tells Oswald that he is in danger. He tells her he already knows and she wants to know how, but it must be saved for another time. Once Cassandra is weaned from the medicine (she remembers everything that has transpired from her kidnapping until now), he brings out her parents’ books and tells her he knew by the journals the dangers facing him, her, and Bruce Wayne. She wants to warn Bruce Wayne, but Oswald still remembers the dream he had of Bruce taking away Iggy, so he is not so keen on the idea. At least, not yet. Besides, he heard he was climbing a mountain somewhere, looking for peace or something.**

**Eventually, Bruce is made aware of his predicament, but is not entirely convinced. He believes Hugo Strange was doing nothing but babbling about the legend, believing it was real, when he, Gordon, and Lucius “toured” Arkham all those years ago. Still, Cobblepot was no loon. Bruce had learned that soon enough. He would not embrace the idea of a secret cabal, but nor would he dismiss it. Gotham had gone crazy after all. Needed a hero. Soon. But there were still adjustments to be made.**

**During this time, Oswald showers Cassandra with gifts—jewelry, fine dining, nights at the opera, including one where she pummeled a stranger who dared to touch her and make disparaging remarks about Oswald. She figures out it is the Batman and basically tells him he would never measure up to Oswald. She finds out that Oswald is planning an attack on the inhabitants of the city, including kids, the logic in his mind being that kids were mean to him when he was a boy, so he would put them in their place as well as the nasty adults. Cassandra tells him she is ashamed of him, that he would be attacking innocent people, including ones that needed a break, or some kindness, just like he did as a kid, that he was just making it worse for those who needed help. Oswald is glad that she cannot see yet. He would not want her to know that his “army” is based off the trinkets they used to build in her basement, but on a much larger scale. He tries to shut it down, but there is a kink. Harold fixes it, but some damage has been done, including a portion of his mansion destroyed. Cassandra further chastises Oswald, telling him it would behoove him to rescue children in such dire straits instead of making life worse for them. A plan builds in his mind, one started when he hid the kids that pulled the fire alarms at The Orchard Hotel. He would be a champion of the discarded or abused child, taking them away, saving them from their sad lives and growing a legion of loyal associates at the same time.**

**Cassandra wakes up Oswald one night and tells him that she thinks her vision is returning and she mentions a locket with a note inside. She wants them, they mean something important to her, but she cannot quite remember why, only problem is, she does not know where they are. Oswald presents the locket with his and Iggy’s pictures inside and his love letter to her. She is stunned to receive them, but knows exactly how to open the locket the first time she tries. Oswald explains to her about the situation with the locket and letter, and Cassandra insists that he read it aloud to her. He hesitates, but does it. She cannot respond, but curls up beside him, sliding her arms around his waist and refusing to let him go. He decides not to fight it, inwardly delighted, and they both fall asleep on the couch.**

**When Cassandra’s brain is returned to its full faculties, she is ready to resume the physical aspect of marriage. Well, _she_ had always been ready—if only it had not been for that darn, gentlemanly Oswald, dammit. Oswald presents Cassandra’s wedding band and engagement ring to her.**

 

She crawled into his lap, it having been made meatier and softer from lack of exercise and the reintroduction of pastas and pastries into Oswald’s diet, not to mention the booze. She started to undo his tie, and his big, luminous eyes watched her every move. She stopped.

“Too soon?” she asked, tilting her head and slightly frowning in concerned question. Oswald wanted to nibble on that familiar wrinkle between her brows. He did not say anything, just shook his head emphatically _no_.

 _Please don’t stop_ , he whispered in his brain, even though in the back of his head, he was seized with a fear of how she would react when she saw his bare fat. He was embarrassed by the extra weight he had put on, and although he was certain she would not reject him, the idea of exposing himself to her made him as nervous as if this was their first time together. He wished he had kept himself in better shape and imagined he would come popping out of his clothes like raw dough from a Pillsbury biscuit can. He did not want her to see his flab and reached to for the remote that would dim the lights. She touched his hand.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

“I am not in the best of shape, as I am sure I do not have to suddenly confess . . . no modern-day Hercules . . . or _Adonis_ . . .” He paused to see if she would remember calling him the latter so long ago. She grinned at him like a shy schoolgirl and continued unraveling his tie. He felt his blood rush, warming the back of his neck and . . . other places. He was a teenage boy again.

She leaned forward and kissed his neck, sending shivers down his spine. When she rocked back to look at him, he felt the flesh below his waist twitch and begin to stiffen from her subtle movement.

“Just so you know, and I want to make myself very clear,” she said. “I still think you are the sexiest man I’ve ever seen, with or without any extra weight, my Adonis. My gypsy boy.” She caressed the side of his face. “But if you prefer lights out, that’s okay. However you are most comfortable.”

When Oswald made no move for the remote, Cassandra leaned to get it, every shift in her body energizing every part of his. He placed his hand over hers and slid the remote from her grasp, throwing it over his shoulder. The impact of it hitting the carpet adjusted the lighting in the room, making it just a wee bit darker. Oswald was secretly grateful.

She kissed him full on the mouth while her hands continued to work their way across his chest. When she released them both for air, he managed to squeak out, “I cannot lose you again.”

She had freed him from the silk tie, having thrown it aside, and set work to liberate him from his shirt, slowly unbuttoning the top first three buttons before turning her attention to helping him out of his jacket.

“You won’t,” she answered. “They taught me so much, and it has only backfired on them, the bastards.” She flung his jacket to the couch’s armrest and undid the brass buttons on his vest.

“You are to never leave this mansion,” he ordered weakly and she paused in undressing him, resting her hands on his chest, and softly responding to his words.

“What did you just say?” He suddenly found something to concentrate on that did not include her face. She thought he looked like a naughty puppy, refusing to meet her eyes. He did however have a firm grasp on her hips.

He shook his head slightly. “I just mean . . . you were taken from me once. It must not happen again.”

“Ah,” she said. “So I shall be your caged bird. Your dog on a leash.” That earned her a sharp rebuke from him as he jerked his head up and glared at her.

“Why do you do that? You always do _that_!” he spat. “Why do you twist my words and hurl them back at me in a sullied context when you know it is not what I intend. _You know it_. _You know it is not what I mean_!” Fury-filled eyes mixed with a trembling bottom lip as he fought the wetness that clung like dew to his lashes. “I have lived in a constant state of illness _every day_ for ten years— _ten years_ you have been gone—my body and my brain and my psyche purging themselves of guilt and fear and loneliness, knowing it was _my_ fault . . .”

Cassandra smoothed the sides of his face and kissed his cheeks. “It’s _not_ your fault,” she murmured, trying to reassure him. “It’s not your fault.”

He continued his tirade as if he had not heard her. “All my fault! Every Jane Doe that rolled into the morgue, I had to see—to reassure myself it wasn’t you. Or to see if it _was_ you so that I could quit searching, quit holding onto hope—a rope made of mist. It was _I_ who had to bare the heartless will of the state when they declared you dead after seven years.” His eyes filled with tears. “Declared you DEAD. I will not go through that again. _I will not_!” Then softer, he uttered, “I cannot. Orpheus should have just slit his wrists rather than watch his soulmate return to the underworld.”

Cassandra shook her head and grabbed his wrists, kissing each one. Within him churned a quiet desperation. He felt like a madman. “I will perish if you are no longer by my side,” he said, then lowered his voice to barely above a whisper, but it did not hide the brokenness in it. “I did perish . . .”

Cassandra let out a small sob and threw her arms around him.

“I’m sorry, my darling. I know how you meant it, but I shall not be made prisoner . . .”

“Not a prisoner . . .” he insisted, tilting his head back to look at her.

“Oswald . . .”

He could not answer, leaning forward to draw closer to her, pulling her back with him and burying his head in the cushiony softness of her breasts. She rubbed the spot between his shoulder blades, trying to offer some silent reassurance. She kissed his neck and saw goose pimples surface.

“I can kick their asses, my love. Surely you know that. Have I not shown you?” When she felt him nod, she continued. “I have learned so much. I would have to be dead, for sure, _really_ dead, before they could touch me again.” She covered his face and neck in kisses, continuing to his chest and undoing the rest of his shirt before moving on to the belt on his trousers. He offered no further protest or demand.

 

**Cassandra knows about the woman, Violet, that Oswald broke out of a forced prostitution ring and how he railed at Violet after she found out about his bloody past and called him names and made to leave him. In a fit of rage, he had returned her to the pimp (who was in a body cast curtesy of Oswald). The night Oswald had done this, could not sleep and decided to go back and get her, but she was nowhere to be found—either dead or bought. Later, when he confessed this to Cassandra, she was livid—not about the relationship, but that he had returned Violet. She insisted that he fund a charity for trafficked people and said she would do it herself if he did not, so he did. Cassandra also demanded he find her in case she was still a victim of this trade. Unfortunately, they never find her.**

**Oswald also told her of a tabloid story that made it seem he was obsessed with a soap opera star. He was, just not romantically. Here are Oswald’s thoughts about that:**

 

People believed that he actually had kidnapped that soap opera starlet because he was obsessed with her. Well, okay he was, but not for the romantic reasons that had been rumored. She knew something about Cassandra’s whereabouts and he intended to hold her until he knew everything that she did.

Besides, Oswald preferred brunettes, not blondes.

And not redheads either.

He had only been seen around the town with Veronica Vreeland because he was lonely, and she genuinely had seemed to enjoy his company, but had only been using him to gain publicity for herself. It seemed that being an elite socialite just did not do enough to provide for her the limelight for which she knew she was born.

She was _not_ a nice person, which was probably why only _he_ could stand her. After that, being played the fool again, thinking someone was truly his friend, he avoided her and would not take her calls, even in jail— _a brief visit, truly, a minor inconvenience_ —after he had arranged a tragedy for her, which failed to materialize because of Batman. But he would be out of the clinker in no time. As usual, there was always someone on the inside just ready to jump at the chance to be of service to Mr. Cobblepot—either to stay on his good side or to gain some favor from him in return.

The press thought it strange that Veronica still vied for Oswald’s attention. Many thought it was just to keep her name in the papers. She was an overnight sensation, and Oswald hated her for the pain she had caused him. He had not been head-over-heels for her by any means, not even a crush, but they shared the same refined tastes and ran with the same crowd. He thought he had formed a bond with an icy cold comrade of sorts. He had been a pawn, a part he did not usually play.

Oswald was done with this crap, all of it, knowing no one could replace his one true love—his best friend and biggest fan Cassandra.

 

**Recurring fits of depression:**

 

What was that saying from the Bible, gain the world, lose your soul? His soul was black and he knew it. There was nothing he could do about it now. So he would rather have something than nothing and since his soul was tainted, it was best to have the world. Even alone.

Who needs faith anyway when one had a mind that could twist the will of others to bend to your own. Every. Single. Time. He could depend on it. It never failed.

Who needs hope when all it ever does is lift you up only to let you go and have you fall to your death. Hope for the best in people. Hope for a father who will love you. Hope for a woman who would love you too. Hope she would stay safe.

He snickered at his own pitifulness.

Who needs love . . .

 _Not me_ , he thought haughtily, not believing himself _at all_.

What good has it ever done him? He ignored the answer. The many answers.

Just—not again. He could not take it.

 

**Ed could not find what was in Cassandra’s system that strengthened her legs, but did find another anomaly in the form of “scaring” across her thigh and calf muscles, attaching almost like ligaments. The make-up of the “scar” tissue acted in the opposite way of how scars “work”. Instead of tightening her muscles and making her legs stiff and achy, they gave strength to her lower body. He is not sure how the scar tissue got there, but that it held trace elements of an earlier prototype of Venom, a street-drug, now much improved, that had first raised it head in Gotham a decade ago, but the side effects were killer back then—basically dissolved the bone of the user and “melted” the person because of its unrelenting dependency upon calcium. No such thing was happening here—the form was rudimentary. It was not in her bloodstream and did not seep itself into bone. It only adhered to muscle and when catalyzed by adrenaline, the extra strength set in.**

**When the fight or flight mode was turned on, so was the Venom and therefore the strength. He wondered if Cassandra’s early connection to the circus and the “strong men” had anything to do with it, like athletes using steroids to improve their performances. He made a joke that Cassandra was a walking cocktail and that Oswald should add her to the mixed drinks list at the lounge. Oswald did not laugh.**

**Cassandra attempts to teach Oswald judo, but they usually end up in an amorous embrace instead, so they end up hiring a professional to instruct Oswald, while Cassandra gets a separate workout. They do have fun watching each other train and many times, Oswald would sit there in their private gym with a bowl of cereal or glass of wine to watch. It had a lot to do with him not liking another man that close to her.**

**She had to be careful to not shatter Oswald _or_ the trainer.**

**The visible sweat from Cassandra’s workout that would gather at the triangle between her legs and upper thighs made Oswald crazy. It was one of his most favorite places to bury his face. Cassandra had to bite her lip whenever Oswald used the small towel to wipe his damp hair, scruffing it up even further. The way his sweatpants showcased his lower half made her appreciate cotton-polyester material. On many occasions, she just wanted to tell the trainer to beat it, but remembered that was why they had called him in the first place—to keep them from pawing each other. These sessions help Oswald take off the weight again. He was giddy with the fact that he could pick Cassandra up now at will and without much effort when he wanted to . . . do stuff. Those judo lessons had been paying off—the amount of strength in his arms even impressed Oswald.**

**It goes on like this for the next five years. Iggy hangs around them more often and becomes more vital to Oswald’s businesses and personal affairs. Cassandra realizes this is Boo. Boo does not realize these are his “adopted” parents. Cassandra pulls capers with Oswald and gets away with it because she is dead after all—she is not in the system and cannot be found or charged. Here is a small snippet about some fellas who were trying to blackmail Penguin by sending him a note stating “I Know What You Did Last Decade” and explaining that they had the hand of the prostitute (Bridgette) he had murdered years ago—recovered from underneath a barroom table and placed in the freezer beside the ice cream and cube steak until needed—but wanted to make it worth their while, so they waited until Oswald was rolling in the dough, because, although they were extorting him now—they hoped he would not hold that tiny detail against them, they always knew he would be somebody and really respected him and could not wait to meet him, and could they get a selfie please. Of course, they could not prove Oswald was involved in any way, and they did not consider this slightly important bit of information beforehand, not to mention that Oswald was vicious and mostly unforgiving, so . . .**

**He was not agreeable to their request.**

 

Cassandra appeared out of nowhere and opened fire on the lot surrounding Oswald. “How do I love thee, my darling?” she asked. “Let me count the ways.”

He broke into a wide smile. “I think there are at least thirty of them, my dear,” he said, gesturing to the group of armed criminals she had just gunned down.

 

**The usual hijinks of Gotham villains continues, including The Mad Hatter who kidnaps Miriam and takes her underneath Gotham to his Wonderland. Bullock and Oswald team up to find her since Oswald is familiar with the tunnels thanks to Ed getting them inside. Oswald will want a favor from the police department at some time. They find Miriam and Hatter at a gruesome tea party in what looks like a formal dining area. Miriam is standing above Hatter with a candlestick in her raised hand. Hatter is slumped forward in his chair over the table. Bullock says, “I think Miriam did it, in the dining room, with the candlestick.” Miriam looks up, childlike, and asks, “Does this mean I win?”**

**Of course, Hatter is not dead.**

**Someone conducts a test run earthquake within the city of Gotham. One place that is hit badly is The Iceberg Lounge. Oswald jokes that from now on, he is only conducting business on open water, perhaps taking over the fortress at sea or buying a big ole boat and docking it at the harbor. Another hit and the earth opens up, swallowing Oswald and Cassandra. They are on different ridges underneath the ground and Oswald removes his flying umbrella but it is broken. He jumps from his perch to Cassandra’s without discarding the umbrella and pierces her side with it as well as knocking her into undergrown steel grids that had supported the lounge.**

**Bruce shows up in the form of Batman and asks Oswald which one of them he should rescue first. He is testing Oswald. Oswald, oblivious to this “test”, answers honestly and says Cassandra, whose body is trying to heal, but because Oswald removed the umbrella, she is bleeding out fast. Batman says there are first responders on scene that can help her.**

**In Batman’s and Cassandra’s absence, fear grips Oswald. He yells that no one is to take her, convinced it is The Court come for her. Batman reappears for Oswald just as Oswald thought the bat would not return for him. When they reach the spot where Batman deposited Cassandra, there is nothing but a pool of blood. Oswald lights into Batman and declares that from then on, they are enemies. Batman says they need to combine their efforts to find her and The Court of Owls. They fight, and Oswald proves his worth as a formidable foe to the bat as the judo lessons have paid off, but Batman gets in the final blow rendering Oswald unconscious. He wakes up in his own bed being cared for by Gabe and Fara and Oswald’s doctor-on-call. He is fine physically, except for a broken nose, which causes further distortion to his face. He refuses any pain medication. The pain feeds his hate.**

**He becomes a major player in black market items after the earthquake, making him a very wealthy man, even more than before.**

**At least he still has Iggy. It is vain reassurance. Iggy discovers that Penguin had killed his real parents and makes plan to destroy Oswald and take over his empire. All he has to do is be patient and wait, learning the ropes as he grows into adulthood.**

**Not unlike his adopted father.**

 

** Part III **

**Seven years have passed. During Cassandra’s absence, many things occurred:**

  1. **Oswald purchased a ship and docked it off the coast of Gotham in waters that cannot be touched by law enforcement. He has also purchased The Fortress and turned it into another Iceberg Lounge, this one with a casino. He and Nygma had almost been killed when they took a boat out to it before its purchase and the fortress exploded. It had deprecated in value at that moment and was much easier to buy.**
  2. **Certain he has lost Cassandra forever, Oswald takes up smoking cigarettes just to be able to carry the flame and the scent of smoke around with him, occasionally using a cigarette holder whenever he believes someone is invading his space. One smack to the cheek of the culprit with the lit end of a ciggie was enough to make anyone take a step or two backwards.**
  3. **He became mayor of Gotham and celebrated by taking up smoking cigars.**
  4. **He lost his position as mayor of Gotham and sulked while smoking pipes.**
  5. **Fara was killed defending her homeland, Themyscira, also known as Paradise Island, and her queen, Hippolyta, although it looked as if she had turned traitor to them. Gabe and Oswald were blindfolded and drugged in order to allow them to attend her funeral on the island. Oswald saw Diana and was enraptured because she reminded him of Cassandra, except she loomed over him. After the funeral, he and Gabe stayed the night and Minerva tried to seduce Oswald who fought to reject her advances. The queen caught her and placed a guard outside his and Gabe’s door and they were flown back to Gotham the next morning. He and Gabe mourned Fara for the rest of their lives. Here is a portion of when Oswald first saw Wonder Woman—not knowing that is who she was at the time:**



 

He wanted her. He watched Diana from afar, mesmerized by her shell and nothing more. She looked so much like Cassandra, except this woman towered over him like a mountain.

He sighed.

 _Cassandra_.

It had been such a long time ago and such a brief moment, he wondered if she had indeed been a hallucination or a dream. If Gabe or Fara had not spoken of her since, he would have believed he had imagined her and consider himself mad. Madder than a hatter. The maddest of them all.

And, yet, wasn’t he? He played the part well. Covered the crazy. A portion of him was broken and irreparable, morphed into some _thing_ else, not a _someone_ else. A bird with a death wish . . . for everyone.

But this should not have happened to Fara. How could he have known, and the prospect of demanding that she stay as his employee was laughable. She would have snapped him in half with her pinky finger. Which was why it was so hard to believe she was dead, on her trip to the Elysian Fields by way of cavern. Decapitated. Gave her life to save her home, this island paradise. Yet only few knew this—that in reality she had played pawn and sacrificed herself for her queen and her friends. He didn’t even know how he and Gabe had gotten here. If he could find a way to avenge her, he would.

 

  1. **He becomes a media mogul and Bruce thinks he had beaten Oswald by buying up stocks in the conglomerate. Oswald has the last laugh when at the last minute, reveals that Fara had left everything to Oswald since she had no heirs. That included her stocks.**
  2. **Iggy succeeded in taking over Oswald’s empire for a short stint and even called himself Emperor Penguin. Oswald is remorseful when he has to sometimes use his weapons against his own son. He refuses to kill him, but tries to get him under control. Many times after an altercation, Oswald would escape to his office, lock the door, and put his head in his hands, refusing to cry. Iggy guinea pigged himself and turned himself into a morphed version of a bat and man with a little venom mixed in for extra fun. He ends up a formidable foe in Blackgate, having now donned the name Emperor Blackgate, but is delivered back to Oswald. Oswald works with Nygma to try to find an appropriate antidote. The addition of the venom makes progress slow. Oswald keeps Iggy drugged just enough to render him harmless, even using the hypnotism powder on him on occasion. He ensures he is not harmed and refuses to allow Batman to take him. He still harbors distrust and anger with the bird after Batman allowed The Court to spirit away with Cassandra.**



 

**Oswald is whisked away one night as he sleeps and placed in Cassandra’s coffin at The Court of Owls lair. He wakes and is told he can only stay with her for a while. Cassandra is as cold as ice and her skin is stark white with blue veins visible underneath. She seems iridescent like snow at dusk or a dragonflies wings reflected by a cloud-covered sun, but her hair is as dark as onyx, except for two thick waves of white hair sprouting from either temple and curling upon her shoulders. _We are a match_ , he thinks, ruminating on his own pale streak of hair down the center of his bangs that he kept concealed with black dye.**

**Oswald tells his abductor to cover him with the cement slab and allow him to expire. His kidnapper refuses. Oswald wants to take her back with him, but is told he cannot. She is getting ready to wake up. Oswald believes the voice he hears whispering to him is female. She says she is going to set her free again and this time she will not die. She tells him to sing her a lullaby. He begins to sing “Someone To Watch Over Me”.**

**He does not remember falling asleep, but wakes to find himself back in his own bed with potted gardenias covering his room and the petals strewn across his bed. Outside on a ledge are two winged creatures—one in brown, one in grey. The one in brown turns and vanishes into the night. The other one, dressed in streaks of black, white, and grey, stares down into Oswald’s bedroom. It is Cassandra. Here is how she felt when she was first revived:**

 

Her hearing was attuned. She could hear the sighs of an ant. Of an individual ant. She could tell you which one out of a hundred. Her sense of smell was heightened. She could smell the lit cigarette of a sweaty man in a sex-saturated club three blocks away. She no longer desired salt but _craved_ French sweets—less sugar. She could taste the fluoride in fresh water. Her eyesight was better than perfect. She was convinced she was The Bionic Woman incarnate. And, when she was touched—it was like being tickled by an army of feathers. There was absolutely no pain. Not even deep down, and she had tested this—with a knife. She did not even bleed. This was not normal.

 

**Back at The Court of Owls, they are informed that although several talons are ready to be unleashed on Gotham, a handful have gone rogue, including Cassandra and the owl that set her free, of course being the young owlet that had been obsessed with the couple, now all grown up.**

**Cassandra manipulates Catwoman to be at the right place at the right time to save Oswald from Ephraim Newhouse, a disgraced talon who was revived by The Court to murder Oswald in order to redeem himself and rid The Court of the Cobblepot name and any future heirs. What Cassandra thought was a letter opener the very first time she had examined Oswald’s office at this first club, was in fact an assassin’s blade that belonged to The Court.**

**Cassandra reunites with Oswald and watches over him for several years from afar, only visiting every once in a while. During this time, Iggy passes away.**

**Cassandra and Oswald continue to fight against The Court, alongside others who do so as well, in one scenario where Cassandra set fire to the airship and it crashes down into Miller Harbor, also known as Gotham Harbor. It is only when Oswald starts showing signs of dementia that she permanently settles into his home, rarely venturing outside unless it is around the gardens to stroll with him as he uses his cane or to push him when he finally succumbs to needing a wheelchair.**

**Cassandra requests morphine from Ed to mix with a poison that The Court has developed in order to execute their assassins, because it was the only thing that would kill them for good with no chance of revival. The Court had also devised it to be extremely painful, a special formula that would attack what was left of sensory nerve cells, which is why Cassandra requested the morphine.**

**Around this period, Gabe passes away. Much of Oswald’s fortune has been dedicated to the upkeep of not only himself, but Gabe’s family, organizations that help children, individuals with disabilities, and bird-related charities, with several places having been named after him or Gertrud. He names a garden within a standalone aviary after Cassandra. Happily for Oswald and against Maroni’s fleeting threats in a Christmas Eve nightmare, Oswald does have his name (in varies forms) on a street, a bridge, and a handful of institutions and companies. He was not forgotten. Here is the final chapter of the story:**

 

** Before & Beyond Pain and Prejudice: A Reimagining, Part III, Final Chapter **

 

The carved mahogany four-post bed was almost as impressive as the man in it, himself a work of art as far as Cassandra was concerned, having been whittled and molded into a grand design, a breathtaking sculpture, not unlike those fine canvases that had not been recognized as masterpieces in their own day, now hanging worldwide in museums and galleries and the homes of the very rich.

She could feel his eyes upon her as he drained the last dregs of tea from the china cup before handing it to her, catching her hand and placing a kiss upon her inner wrist. She planted one on his forehead and turned to place the cup upon a cart before stacking crumb-ridden plates on top of one another, their delicate clinking filling the room and mixing with the sound of the popping fire. It was the same cart he had used to leave her breakfast one morning, and many mornings after that.

“Well, my pretty little Chickadee. How would you like to come sit in my lap?” He patted his thigh, still chilled underneath the covers, no matter how many blankets Cassandra covered him with or logs she put on the fire.

“You _are_ a fresh one,” she teased, making herself comfortable upon his old legs, sitting her butt on the mattress, but draping her limbs over his thighs to not put pressure on aged bones, her knees leaning against his substantial stomach. The years had seen Oswald pack the weight back on the sicker he became.

“You are cheating me, you delicious bird.” He buried his nose in the crevice of her neck, and she laughed, clasping his face, her other arm around his shoulders. She played with his hair. He was due for a cut. He would not like that. It would be a fight.

When he stopped his nuzzling, she waited. Oswald breathed in deeply, taking in her scent, and then suddenly sat straight up to look her in the eyes.

“Cassandra?” he blinked. “How long have I been gone this time?

“It does not matter, my sweet.” _This time_ had been all day long. He had slept for most of it, tossing and turning, and calling her name.                

“How long?”

“It’s always you, Oswald. My darling.”

“But I cannot remember . . . my doppelgangers grant me no pardon.” His mouth turned down at the corners and he issued a sob. “I am so jealous of them right now. They rob me of my time with you. I hate them so much.”

She withheld telling him that he said this nearly every single day when he could escape from the disease that ravaged his mind. How she dreaded those moments when his face would change and those cobwebs would weave their poison across his brain and erase any memory of her from him as his spouse. Oswald knew her during _those times_ as only his nurse and mistress whom he proposed to every day, having forgotten that he had the day before, and every day, she said _yes_.

Cassandra lived for the moments when they could be truly together, such as now, man and wife. A voyeur would misinterpret the scene if spying through a window, only seeing a geezer romancing, sometimes more appropriately— _pawing at_ , a young woman. But time had aged Oswald and experiments had stayed Cassandra’s youth.

He pulled her close, as tight as his wasting muscles would allow. She wanted to cry along with him for the feebleness in his body and mind, or perhaps it was for the bane of her own, unnatural longevity as she wished instead to be slow-moving and wrinkled like her better half. She stroked his white hair, curling the silky strands around her fingers. His beautiful snowy tresses set against his alabaster skin, gave him the ethereal appearance of a visiting faerie or some otherworldly phantom. She knew deep down, it would not be long until he joined the ranks of such spirits.

“I love you, Oswald. ALL of you. All of your personalities. You know that.” Oswald shook as he surrendered completely into the trappings of a crying spell, his wails as heartbreaking as the ones emitted by a lonely wolf baying at the moon.

“ _I_ know _some of my personalities_! I _know_ who I am . . . _how I can be_ . . .” His head came up to look at her, and he grabbed her upper arms. “Should I ever lay a hand on you with intent for violence, you kill me, Cassandra. Do you hear, _you kill me_!” She kissed him repeatedly on the forehead. He continued. “I know that you heal in an instant, _I do_. But you should not have to continuously heal because of injuries issued by my hand.” Her kisses had reached the side of face and his voice become softer. “You kill me, Cassandra . . .” he whispered. “You utterly kill me.” Her plump lips met his wrinkled ones and in her mind’s eye, she saw him as young and as fresh as the baby-faced man she had met on her farm, frumpled and fearful and angry at the world.

It was everything she could do to not break down, a crumbled mess in his arms. She had to be strong for him, with their time together so scarce and becoming fewer—the hourglass running out of sand—she wanted his memories to be good. Whatever _good_ meant for people like them, and whatever memories could be salvaged at that final moment.

She sat back to look at him. “I need to cut your hair.” Oswald saw the tears glistening in her eyes ready to spill over. He reached over to touch her eyelids, leaving Cassandra no other choice but to close them. The pressure from his thumb released the saline and the water ran down her cheeks.

“Are we really going to have this conversation again?” he teased her softly. “Did you learn nothing from the first time you suggested gleaning a bit of tape from my tresses?” He titled his double chins down until they rested on his collarbone and peered up from her underneath his long lashes. Grey, but long. To Cassandra, Oswald looked thirty-six years old. She grinned.

“What?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’m just adoring you,” she answered.

Oswald leaned back and closed his eyes. “You may continue,” he said with a pleased smirk.

She chuckled. “You know I’ll never stop.”

“Naturally.”

Even at this age, he still looked so put together. Velvet smoking jacket (although she had been able to ween him off the cigarettes and cigars, he still insisted on a good pipe) in dark burgundy and gold accents, with gold rope lining the fabric. Silk pajamas, the black shiny material refusing to stay hidden underneath the robe. Hair, although white and receding, was slicked back as smooth as marble, but as soft as rabbit’s fur.

“I love you,” he told her. “I love you, Cassandra. Even my doppelgangers love you. I can feel it.”

Cassandra bit her lip to stifle a building sob. She sat there playing with the front of his jacket and clamping her lips together.

 _Enough of this silly, selfish crying,_ she thought _. He must not see you like this. It would distress him_. _So owl up, baby_.

“I love you, Oswald.”

“In this world and the next?” He asked, grinning like a cocky schoolboy.

“In this world and the next,” she assured him. He breathed a sigh of relief and Cassandra waited to hear his intake of breath as she watched him doze off, only there was not one.

She leaned forward, listening, and heard nothing. His chest had fallen still and his face was relaxed. She placed her fingers on the side of his throat and found no pulse. She called his name, panic building in her voice, and shook his shoulders, before pressing her ear against his chest. Warm, but silent.

A gradual keening went up from the bed, the bedroom, the mansion, the street, the city, and into the sky. Had Cassandra’s anguish manifested itself in flames, her howls would have lit up the night as bright as a mid-day afternoon during summer—the world encased in fire.

She had outlived the love of her life.

Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, much-feared villain and crime lord, who had shed the blood of many and caused ruin to the masses, passed peacefully away in his bedchamber—his candle extinguished with barely a whisper. Who would have imagined that a man whose entire life had consisted of nothing but vengeance and avarice would end his days cozy in his bed, well attended to, and with the person he loved the most curled up in his lap like a kitten. A man to whom death was a hobby and power a favorite pastime, exited his worn, abused, brittle body for another form without a hair on his head being damaged.

And, in the misty silence of _in between_ , he waited.

Although there was a great turnout for his remembrance service—where many stopped at the entrance to the auditorium for photo ops—only a few attended his funeral. Most of the people he had known, he had either killed, ordered killed, or offended so deeply that they saw no gain and risked no retribution if they did not wish a _bon voyage_ to this particular man on this particular voyage. _Good riddance and take out the rubbish_ , it was muttered, as they left the auditorium, casting aside the program that listed the untold number of philanthropists endeavors from which Oswald Cobblepot’s accomplishments and altruism had benefitted them. Not so much as a cold acknowledgement of the good he had inadvertently done was expressed without contempt or ungratefulness.

Cassandra stood in the rain, not feeling the drizzle as it coated her face, unable to distinguish the rain from shed tears. A tiny crew had gathered—whether bound by history, love, or a twisted form of respect. It included James Gordon and Harvey Bullock—who could barely walk, The Joker—who had to drag Harlequin with him to the cemetery, Edward Nygma, also known as The Riddler—who donned a cane of his own to help keep his balance, and billionaire Bruce Wayne.

There were no eulogies offered, only flowers left at the base of the crypt in the mausoleum. Most were roses, some were lilies . . . one was a nosegay of gardenias.

Cassandra was never seen or heard from again after that day, leaving a further broken place within the heart of only one.

There are rumors that two bodies are entombed in that concrete coffin where Oswald Cobblepot lies. One of a man, the other, a woman.

The story goes—if one should believe in such nonsense, that a dark-haired lady in all her grief for this unseemly old mobster and lout, had ingested a vial of poison and laid herself down among the flowers below his place of resting to wait on death. It is further gossiped among campfires and sleepovers that Batman himself saw her take her life and instead of calling for an ambulance, disemboweled the tomb of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot from the Cobblepot family mausoleum and placed the dead woman inside, closed it up, and left us all none the wiser. Years after the deaths of Cassandra and Oswald, this was proven to be true when another earthquake hit the city and broke open the coffin. Inside they found two skeletons, sleeping side by side. It was never proven that Batman played their Yenta.

How would one even guess to discern how the tale began? Perhaps there had been another spectator at the funeral, one who secretly loved the couple, being wholly fascinated by them since her childhood, swept up in their romance, who now nursed a broken heart and had stolen a snow globe with which to comfort herself with the flakes and the music and the dancing automations. A being who had always wished them well, intervening on their behalf whenever she could. Watching . . . like an owl.

But, no one knew for sure. Not really.

And, patient reader, if you should desire to further believe in the rare creature that every person hunts—true love that survives even after cruel death, and the stories that surround lovers who have been parted by the heartless Reaper yet are able find each other again . . . then take heart in knowing that some citizens of Gotham have sworn up and down that on certain nights when the moon is fully waxed and the stars are shameless in their flirtations, a couple promenades through the aviary at the Gotham zoo. A comely young woman who glides arm-in-arm with a youthful, fresh-faced man who no longer limps—a man who can run—who can fly even, but chooses instead to cling to the lady at his side—herself a specter no longer haunted, both of them dark and laughing, and that a little blond boy comes running up to them—tiny and innocent and as bright as the sun, with arms outstretched, waiting to be lifted to his father’s shoulders before waving to someone in the distance as they gently evaporate into the night.

Of course, it is only a legend.

 THE END


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